


Collection of Mostly Unfinished Fics

by ambiengrey



Category: Batman (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Gen, JasCas ch 34/35/55/56, Spitfire fic ch 27-33, bad language, the Archive Warnings mainly only apply to Loitering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 11:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 62
Words: 173,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiengrey/pseuds/ambiengrey
Summary: As the title suggests, this is where I'll be dumping all of my unfinished (the multi-chapter ones anyway) fics, for the sake of having them archived somewhere (in case there's someone that still wants to read them, despite their incomplete status, I guess). All of them are Batfam related, dating back from 2013-2017. Enjoy (and, again, apart from the one shots they're not done, so don't get attached XP).Multi-chapter Fics: Heart to Heart; Fearless; What Kind of Jerk Would I Be; Loitering.





	1. Heart to Heart ch 1/Foot to Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first fic in this dump is a cartoon Young Justice fic I wrote back in 2013. This chapter has two titles, because I'd posted it as Heart to Heart on fanfiction.net and several chapters thereafter, until I ended up disliking the story as a whole, so I deleted it and reposted chapter one as a one shot under the title Foot to Face.  
> This was my first DC-related fanfic. :D I'd just finished watching Young Justice and Dick was still my fave, because he was adorbs. The only other fics I'd written before this was a Yugi-Oh GX fic named _I Love You Slifer Slacker_ , and briefly a Fullmetal Alchemist thing I never got far with - both of which contained OCs that got paired with a canon character. That was the kind of fanfiction I was most familiar with, so this story followed the same trend.
> 
> This chapter originally posted 17 Nov 2013.

**Confessions**

Bruce Wayne handed the cab driver his fair through the window between their seats, and a little tip just because, before he got out of the taxi with a sigh. It wasn’t often he needed one. He could hardly remember the last time. But he had needed Alfred at home rather than driving the limo. In case Dick did something stupid. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen often either. But, ever since he’d met that girl…

Trusting the front door to be open, Bruce didn’t bother knocking, but reached for the handle instead. He’d half expected Alfred to open the door before he could do it himself, or short of that the loyal butler was probably waiting just on the other side. But it wasn’t Alfred that met him when he entered the house – it was Dick’s foot. Reflexively, Bruce recoiled backward, and the kid came swinging past his face, sliding across the top of an end table beside the door, sending vases scattering, before he fell off the other end and onto his face with a yelp.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and shut the door behind him.

“Evening, Alfred,” he nodded at the older man, who’d appeared out of seemingly nowhere.

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce made his way around the table to where Dick lay, groaning, on the floor. “Tell me, has a simple ‘hello, welcome home’ gone out of fashion for kids these days?”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Dick grumbled, pushing himself up to sit on his knees. He rubbed at his face.

“Are you sure? Because you’re acting like one.”

The boy scowled at him.

“Some tea, Master Bruce?” Alfred inquired into the momentary silence.

“In a minute, Alfred. Thanks.”

“Very good, sir…”

Dick had gotten to his feet, and was still scowling.

“Do you think your mouth might do a better job of conveying your feelings, than your foot?”

“Oh, ‘ _feelings_ ’, we’re sharing those today?” the boy clenched his fists. “I saw the news – you put my team in danger today!”

“They were _my_ team today.”

“And then you had Alfred lock me inside so I couldn’t go out there and help them!”

“I’m not sure if I should be disappointed that you didn’t get out, after all…” Bruce said thoughtfully. Dick opened his mouth to snap something else at him, but he cut him off, “Also, they’re not _your_ team – they’re Aqualad’s.”

“They’re my _friends_! All of them, and I care about them! They needed my help—”

“Not really. I had everything under control. They were fine.”

“That’s not what it looked like half the time! I was worried about them – you had no right to keep me from them!” Dick glared at him, but Bruce’s expression hardly changed. Finally, the kid threw his hands in the air, “Argh! Why do I even bother with you? It’s not like _you_ have any friends – only teammates! You don’t care about anyone but yours—” he trailed off, Bruce’s hand catching him firmly by the shoulder as he tried to storm past.

“I care about you, Dick. You’re family.”

The boy swallowed hard, glanced up at Bruce for a second, and then scowled some more at the floor.

“And I care about your team the same way I care about mine. But, this isn’t really about any of that, is it? It’s because I won’t let you date that girl.”

“‘That girl’ has a name!” Dick cut in, looking up at Bruce. Spots of colour had appeared on the boy’s cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Or maybe,” Bruce ignored him, “It’s because you went ahead and dated her behind my back anyway, and then I found out.”

“It was _one kiss_!” Dick snapped, pushing at Bruce’s arm to get the man’s hand off his shoulder. He could feel the heat rise up his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. Bruce let him go, and Dick crossed his arms tightly across his chest, feeling stupid. “It-was-just-one-kiss,” he mumbled, hiding his face by looking at his socks. “I-wasn’t-dating-her-behind-your-back.”

“A lot of lipstick for ‘one kiss’…”

Dick flinched as though he’d been struck – had Bruce really just said that, or was the Boy Wonder hearing things? He looked up sideways at the older man, whose gaze was off somewhere else, as he stood suddenly in thought. But, was that a…was he trying to hide a smile?

“Come here,” Bruce said, and led the way toward their sitting area. Reluctant, but curious, and annoyed all at the same time, Dick sulked along in the man’s wake. Bruce left Dick standing, and sat down on the arm of a sofa, hands in his lap. “Tell me what happened.”

“What for?” Dick snapped at once, though he wasn’t sure he’d actually meant to. “So you can just make fun of me some more? No thanks!”

“Dick,” Bruce stopped him as he was about to march off, putting a hand on his shoulder in such an almost sincere gesture, Dick had to stop moving altogether for a second. “Tell me what happened.”

Dick stared at his…mentor? Friend? …Father? Every once in a while Bruce had such a _moment_ , and Dick couldn’t think of him as anything less than a…

He swallowed, sighed, and let his arms drop at his sides, feeling all the resistance drain out of him. Bruce let him go, and sat patiently waiting for him to start. Keeping his eyes on the floor, Dick spoke quietly, “We were in the kitchen…grating carrots for M’gann’s stupid salad…” like everything was the salad’s fault, Bruce thought. “Everyone else was…off,” he shrugged. “She’d just broken up with me – with _Dick Grayson_ ,” he gestured the air, like Dick Grayson was standing next to him, “without a real explanation, and here was the perfect opportunity to fish out why,” he shrugged, looking almost innocent. “Because she and Robin are friends, you know,” he gestured himself as he spoke, “She’d tell him stuff.” Bruce kept his face straight, nodded along with understanding. “So I brought it up…and then I asked… And at first she didn’t want to say, but I…kind of nagged at her, I guess…” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. “And _then_ …” he stretched the word, trailed off, feeling the heat rise beneath his skin again. This was embarrassing.

“She kissed you,” Bruce offered, and Dick looked up at him – the man was _trying not to smile._

“It wasn’t funny!” Dick snapped.

Bruce chuckled, raising his hands in defence, “I’m not laughing!” he said, even as he did. “Alright, alright,” he cleared his throat, said seriously, his face almost mockingly straight again, “Go on.”

Dick groaned, and let his gaze drop to the floor again – it was a much better view than Bruce’s face. “So…we just stood there for a while…” _Kissing_ , he added in his head. “And then, I guess she kind of realized what she was doing, and then…she flew off,” he waved one hand through the air, looked up at nothing in particular. “So I went after her, and that’s when we ran into you,” he finished off anticlimactically, waving his hand through the air again as he took to pacing a few steps away, still in thought.

“Man!” he exclaimed then, turning back around. He ran his hands over his face, dejected. “I even yelled at Wally for no reason,” Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Dick waved a hand. “Later in the bathroom, when I was washing off her…” he stopped short with the gesture to his mouth, at the sight of Bruce’s expression. He dropped his hand, glared at the older man. Bruce grinned shamelessly at him.

Dick crossed his arms and turned his back on Bruce with a sigh. Why’d he ever open his big mouth in the first place? He was never hearing the end of any of this.

“I don’t think Wally will be particularly perturbed by it…” Bruce said quietly, but with clear amusement in his tone – which Dick elected to ignore.

“Yeah, he’ll be turbed,” Dick said. “But I feel jerky about it…” he sighed again.

A moment later, Bruce’s hand came to rest on Dick’s shoulder a third time. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That she likes Robin so much. And that she dumped Dick Grayson for him…” he added in a loud whisper. “But you understand why I don’t want you dating a member of your team.” It wasn’t even a question. It didn’t need to be though – Robin knew exactly why.

He sighed, and said as much. “Yeah. Secret identities, divided loyalties, potential betrayals – I get it. Plus, you don’t trust her. I can’t tell anyone who I really am, either, for all the same reasons.”

“And a few extras,” Bruce added. “…I am sorry.”

Dick nodded, but said nothing, and in the silence that followed, Alfred appeared.

“Your tea, Master Bruce.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, with a smile – Alfred always knew when to appear. “But I think we’ll take it downstairs. Dick needs to let off some steam in the training room,” he squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently, saw Dick smile at him from the corner of his eye.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred was smiling beneath that moustache, too, Bruce would bet.

“Hey,” Dick said. “I’m sorry I tried to plant my foot in your face.”

“That’s okay,” Bruce replied easily. “It was about the most exciting thing to happen to Bruce Wayne today.”

Dick laughed, “You poor old man.”

“I’m not old yet, kid,” Bruce retorted. “Your foot missed, remember?”

Dick only rolled his eyes.

“You know your team was never in any real danger today. I planned on how to get each of them out of their own dangerous situation before I sent them in.”

“Yeah,” Dick nodded, half embarrassed. Not at _not_ having trusted the Bat, because he had, of course – but more at having snapped at Bruce for no reason. “I know.”

“What’s for dinner, Alfred?” Bruce asked, starting off toward the hallway. Dick and Alfred, who was carrying their tray of tea, followed behind.

“Oh, all of your favourites, sir.”

“More exciting news.”

“Master Bruce needs a girlfriend, don’t you think, Alfred?”

“I’ve been telling him that for years, Master Dick. Perhaps together we’ll have better luck with convincing him.”

“Don’t start giving the kid ideas, Alfred,” Bruce replied, catching Dick behind his neck with one large hand and scowling at him. Dick only grinned.

“So what did you tell the team – about my sudden absence?” Dick asked, as they passed through the opening to the Bat Cave, hidden behind a very old, but dustless grandfather clock, and descended the stairs beyond.

“I told them you came down with something,” Bruce replied.

“Oh, yeah, what?”

“A wave of idiocy.”

“You did _not_ say that.”

“No?”

“You didn’t!”

“Ask them.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Bruce only laughed. “Ask them tomorrow.”

Behind them, Alfred smiled.


	2. Heart to Heart ch 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted 18 Nov 2013.

**Chasing**

She was a fast flyer, Dick had to admit. But he wasn’t a slow runner himself – he could catch up to her. Probably. Maybe. …Eventually.

“Argh,” he scowled, and ran a little faster. This was too insane. The world had seemed a little brighter not five minutes ago, when he was standing in the kitchen… They’d been in sort of a real relationship for weeks, and he was trying really hard to make up to her all the times he had to ditch out on a date – the way a real boyfriend would do, even though in truth she was ditching him too, she just didn’t know he knew. Maybe, with all the cancelations and whatnot, it was why they’d never had a real _moment_ together, where…stuff could happen. Not until the kitchen, anyway.

Dick almost smiled, but someone cut into his thoughts just then, Wally calling from down a hallway he’d just passed, “Hey, Robin! Where you off to so fast?”

Dick stopped in his tracks, mentally having a ‘Hello, Megan’ moment. He stared down the corridor for a second, and then decided he just _had_ to. “Hello, _Dick_!” he hissed at himself, hoping no one had heard, and whacked his palm against his forehead. “You’re _Robin_ , you idiot.”

She’d kissed _Robin_ , not Dick. What the heck did that mean? Had she broken up with him because she actually liked…well, _him_? He’d been so lost in the moment earlier, just because it was _her_ and _him_ , that he’d forgotten she had no idea who _he_ really was.

“I’ve warned you about frowning like that before, dude. Your face will stick and then you’ll permanently need a mask.”

Dick – _Robin_ – started at Wally’s voice unexpected beside his ear, but, regaining his composure, honoured the speedster with a scowl and a quick, “Don’t do that,” before he started off again at a run.

“Wait, where are you going in such a hurry?” Wally called after him.

“Nowhere – don’t follow me,” Robin called back, but then came to a halt again, something else having come to mind. He turned around, “Actually, have you seen—” and started again at finding Wally right in front of him, a wide grin on his friend’s freckled face.

“Seen?” Wally prompted.

Dick groaned, “Raquelle.”

Wally frowned, “Which one?”

“The blonde one,” Dick snapped impatiently – who else would it be? She was the only one around. “Did she come by here?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, she went that way,” Wally said, gesturing another adjacent hallway.

“Zeta-tubes…” Dick mumbled, realization dawning – of course _that_ was where she was going. She was running away.

“You want me to catch you up to her?” Wally asked, sounding mischievous. He even winked.

“Sure…” Dick replied, albeit a bit hesitantly, but he had to confess he wasn’t _that_ fast, and he’d already wasted so much time. He had to catch up to her before she left. “But only far enough I can catch up to her the rest of the way myself. And then you need to disappear,” he added sternly.

“You got it,” Wally said, giving him a mock salute. “Climb on my back? And try not to fall off…” Robin could’ve sworn he’d added ‘this time’ to the end of that. “And also,” Wally spoke, even as he took off, Robin’s arms around his neck, the younger boy’s hair blown back by the speed of Wally’s pace. “You should work out more, dude. You’re like a twig – still. Girls don’t dig that.”

“Shut up,” Robin snapped right in Wally’s ear, making the other boy flinch. And then they came to a very sudden stop, Wally letting him go at the same Robin lost his grip around the speedster’s neck. He fell back, landing hard on his ass. He groaned, annoyed, and shot Wally a look.

His friend shrugged, and grinned, “There she is, dude. You go get her.”

Dick looked around at the cave’s zeta-tube chamber, quickly getting to his feet as he did so. She was flying over their training area just then.

Wally had disappeared not a split-second after he’d spoken, but he was back as fast again to say, “You got a little something on your lip there, by the way,” he gestured his own mouth with a forefinger, and sped off again with an echoing snicker.

Dick wiped at his mouth, looked at his fingers, but saw nothing. Ignoring it, he took off at a run again. She must have heard them speaking because she glanced back over her shoulder even as she flew, looking surprised to see him behind her. She scowled, and, focused on him, and likely the desire to get out of there as fast as possible, the way he was likewise focused on her and the desire to stop her from leaving, that neither of them heard the announcement of their mission commander’s arrival.

Another second later, with barely enough warning for her to stop, Batman appeared between Raquelle and the zeta-tubes.

“Ah!” she leaned back so as not to hit him, lost her grip on flying, and fell backwards – right into Robin’s hands.

“You alright?”

“Let go!” she said breathlessly, finding her feet and shrugging his hands off her arms all at once.

“Okay…” he said, hands raised defensively.

She watched him sideways, crossed her arms, and then stole a glance at Batman, who was still standing there stoically. Robin had almost forgotten him, too. Tentatively, he looked up at his mentor, who despite the mask hiding his face, was almost certainly raising an eyebrow at them.

“Er…” Dick hadn’t planned on having to explain their little chase to anyone – it was a miracle Wally hadn’t asked any questions. Mentally, he paused – _Wally hadn’t asked any questions?_ That set off several alarm bells, but Robin couldn’t deal with those right now. “We were just…” he started, but trailed off a bit, trying to hold Batman’s gaze and glance at Raquelle for a hint at the same time. Usually he was a much better liar than this.

“Playing tag,” she cut in quickly, the nervous hitch in her tone probably not escaping Batman’s ears either, but maybe he could smooth that over as Batman just being his intimidating self. If he could make tag sound legitimate enough.

“Yeah,” he said, as casually and smoothly as he could. “Tag. It’s good for… testing our speed and whatnot,” he grinned at the Bat. And, just to drive home the point, gave Raquelle a light punch against her arm, “You’re it, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she practically growled at him, scowling.

“Mission briefing in five. Raquelle, fetch the others for me.”

She hopped off the ground and flew off almost as fast as Wally could run on a slow day. Well, Batman would do that to you.

Robin stared after her without having meant to, and, perhaps a little in thought, could have sworn he must have misheard what Batman said then.

“You usually play tag with your mouth, Robin?”

“ _What_?” he snapped from his thoughts, looked round at Batman in alarm, aware he was either blushing furiously or had gone terribly pale.

Batman had turned to a keyboard, was typing in something. He said, “You might want to look in a mirror before the briefing.”

Robin didn’t move though, still running words through his head and feeling foolish for how little sense they made in his mind just then.

“Go on,” Batman said, the older man watching Robin over his shoulder.

Dick nodded, thinking it odd how…almost _resigned_ Batman had sounded. Kind of like Bruce after a _really_ long day at the office. Sometimes he mumbled keeping an enterprise afloat was harder work than saving the planet from Vandal Savage. That was saying a lot.

Still pondering the sheer oddity of his entire morning – so far – Robin sauntered off to go find a mirror.

~

Lipstick.

It was _lipstick_ all over – and around – his mouth. _How_ had that happened?

_Hello, Dick!_ He knew how that happened.

He scowled at his reflection, shook his head at himself. He hadn’t even noticed she’d been wearing any – he’d been too…darn distracted, apparently. _One of the world’s greatest detectives, Robin. Yeah right._

It was a light pink, almost fleshy colour, but not fleshy enough.

He wet the cloth in his hand with warm water, a second time, and rubbed more furiously at his face. His skin was red by the time he was done, but at least the lipstick was off.

And then came a flush from behind, and Robin froze, realizing he wasn’t alone.

A cubicle behind him opened, admitting Wally exit. The speedster stretched his arms wide, noticed Robin, and grinned. “So, how’d it go?” he asked, wily.

Robin scowled. “Nothing went anywhere,” he snapped, throwing down the cloth in the sink. And then, because he realized how _that_ had sounded, he added quickly, “Because there wasn’t anything to go anywhere with anyway! Just – there wasn’t anything. Ever! _Man_ , why do you have to be so _nosy_?” the kid threw his hands up as though defeated, scowled some more at Wally, and then marched out of the bathroom, practically slamming the door shut behind him.

Wally stood, not particularly perturbed by the outburst, but a might confused, “I should’ve stayed and spied…” he decided at last, sighing.


	3. Heart to Heart ch 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted 20 Nov 2013.  
> (I should also note this story wasn't exactly written or posted linearly)

**Sharing**

Sometimes, when Robin had to stay behind in Gotham for the day, meaning lots of bad guy research in the Bat cave and night-time patrolling with the Dark Knight, the Boy Wonder would take lunch downtown when he was in need of a breather. This also usually meant lunch had nothing to do with actual lunchtime. There was a diner on Sixth he infrequently frequented, and on some occasions, Wally and the Team would join him.

This happened to be one of those times.

Six superheroes sat casually, and unnoticeably, nestled into a corner booth next to the diner’s side door, munching on a shared plate of French fries.

Since Robin had to wear his disguise – a pair of dark sunglasses – around the Team, they had taken to doing the same thing, less someone recognize Dick as _Robin_ in the company of civilian friends. It could get awkward.

As a result, Wally and Artemis had taken to wearing sunglasses as well, M’gann had changed her hair into an attractive dark blonde colour Dick rather liked, and Kaldur wore a big, brown, afro-style wig – Wally’s idea. The Atlantian was still scowling sidelong at the redheaded youth between fries, but mostly it was alright. Superboy – Conner – had taken a page right out of his “big brother’s” book and had perched a pair of square spectacles on his nose. It made Robin smile.

Being out of the Bat cave with his friends made Robin smile. It beat sitting around doing nothing as he waited on evidence analysis that could very well take all day. Alfred would let him know if the computer suddenly needed his attention – if his own tech on his wrist didn’t first. But it had been well over an hour since he’d left the cave and nothing yet. Besides, he’d had a rough week – they all had – and a break could only be good for the soul…or, so he’d heard, anyway.

“Something to drink would be nice,” M’gann said, on the question of anything more to order, once they’d gotten halfway through the fries. Robin had gone ahead and ordered it before they’d arrived, intending for them to order their own drinks when they got there, but the team had gotten to talking, and it slipped everyone’s mind as they dug into the fries – which, as Wally kept repeating, were good.

“And more of these,” he added then, right on top of what M’gann was saying, gesturing the fries with one in his hand, and then popping it into his already stuffed pie-hole. Dick shook his head, half smiling. “Cause, they’re really—”

“ _Good_ ,” everyone else cut in, and Conner added, “We heard you the first time.”

Wally swallowed, “I’m just glad you all agree.”

Beside him, Artemis shook her head, rolled her eyes. Wally didn’t notice, grabbing for another fry.

“So, what do you all want? I’ll go order,” Dick offered.

“What do they have?” Kaldur asked, scratching the back of his neck, under the wig. “Perhaps some menus might help.”

“They have pretty usual stuff,” Dick shrugged. “But, if it’s menus you want…” he made to get up, one leg already out from under the table, only to stop when he looked up and saw her standing next to the booth. She’d clearly been passing by, coming to a halt just as he’d stopped from getting to his feet also. He recognized her at once, but then, she recognized him too.

“Wonder dude!” she half exclaimed, grinning, and at once the entire Team had their eyes on her.

Mentally, Robin groaned.

“ _Boy Wonder_ ,” he corrected in an undertone, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t ever expected to see her again, but at least he hadn’t forgotten her name. He was a famous superhero, though, and she still couldn’t get it right, after he’d said it at least twice the other day? _Wonder_ ful.

“Oh! Right, _that’s_ what it is. I knew it wasn’t the other thing,” she said, talking fast, and waving one hand through the air, spots of bright pink blossoming on her cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, dismissing it with a hand wave of his own. “What are you doing here?”

“Shake,” she replied easily, raising the foam cup in her hands, which Robin had actually failed to notice, and taking a deep sip through the straw – chocolate. He’d kind of pegged her as a strawberry girl, but…anyway—

“Oh. Well, there it is. Nice seeing you and all,” he said in a rush, nodding at her and turning back around in his seat and crossing his arms. He kept his eye on her though, knowing she wouldn’t notice through the shades.

The straw popped out of her mouth, and for a moment she looked almost pouty, but then she nodded and smiled sort of thin-lipped, glancing over everyone in the booth, “Yeah, you too,” she said, sort of waving with her free hand at her waist.

“ _Dude_ ,” Wally hissed, too loud, from beside Robin, punching him in the side just hard enough he’d feel it, but not so hard he’d flinch from it. Dick grit his teeth, annoyed.

“Don’t rush off,” Wally was still speaking even as he gave Dick a piece of his mind, smiling kindly at the _stranger_. Apparently Wally wasn’t fazed by the fact. “Why don’t you sit with us?”

The rest of the Team were watching Wally with critical, raised-eyebrow expressions, and Robin could tell Kaldur was trying to figure out a way of reprimanding the speedster without offending the girl or making too much of a scene. But then, even as Wally was still speaking, Dick felt the gentle touch of connection in the back of his mind – M’gann had linked them up.

 _“You know this girl?”_ Conner asked the thing they’d probably all been wondering, and Dick answered at once with a firm, resounding _“No.”_

“ _Sounds like you do,”_ Wally retorted.

Dick ignored him, and said aloud, before the girl could get in a word, “She probably has things to do,” and he looked at Wally beside him pointedly, putting as much disapproval into his visible features as he could.

_“Dude. I got it – enough with the death glare.”_

“Actually,” she started, and Dick felt his heart sinking to the bottom of his feet.

_“Why do you have to be such a—”_

_“Wally.”_

“I totally do…”

_“What? I was gonna say ‘jerk’.”_

Dick rolled his eyes.

“Sorry…”

Dick and Wally both looked over at the girl, Wally wearing a dumb expression on his face.

 _“She said she can’t stay,”_ M’gann offered, realising the boys had missed the girl’s words.

“Oh,” they echoed aloud.

She smiled half-heartedly, glanced at Dick for a second, looking almost uncertain, before she thrust out her free hand right past him, toward Wally. “Kid Flash, right?” she asked, almost whispering it.

Wally’s face split into a grin, “Yeah,” he said excitedly, taking her hand and shaking it vigorously.

_“Wally!”_

That was almost everyone.

 _“At least our real identities are disguised…”_ Robin mumbled, and the rest of the Team gave a collective sigh, resigned to this fate.

“And this is Artemis,” Wally was introducing, gesturing the blonde beside him, and then across from Robin to the opposite seat, “Aqualad,” the Atlantian smiled politely, extending a hand, which she shook once. “Miss Martian,” Wally continued. “And our very own—”

“Superboy!” the girl said with a grin, almost looking like she was going to start bouncing up and down.

Conner, who’d been leaning back in his seat beside M’gann, arms crossed, looked up in surprise.

“You helped save a school bus I was on a couple years ago,” she explained with a shrug. “Was awesome. Thanks.”

Conner smiled, gave a curt nod.

“Superheroes hanging out in a diner?” she said, amused.

Wally grinned, stuffed another fry in his mouth, “Dude’s got to eat.”

She laughed a little at that, and then turned to Dick, “While I’ve got you here,” she said, and Dick, swallowing his annoyance, looked up at her, too. She poked his arm with her forefinger, “Thank you, too. For the other day.”

“You’ve already said thanks,” he said dismissively. “And I already said it’s just my job.”

_“Rescued damsel in distress? Dude, why’re you being so cold? That’s not like you, you attention-monger.”_

She gave a little laugh, and Robin almost missed half of Wally’s scold listening to the sound.

“Sure it is,” she said. “And how often do you get thanked for it?” She shook her head, waved her hand like it didn’t matter, but didn’t stop smiling. “Anyway, see you later tall, dark and shaded,” she waved at the rest of the Team, started for the door on the other side of the diner. Robin looked up to watch her go. Not two steps from their booth she looked over her shoulder to wave at him, “Smile a little,” she called back. “It’s good for the soul.”

He scowled at the table.

There was silence. Around the booth, in his head – M’gann had cut off their connection and he’d barely noticed.

“Dude,” Wally finally snapped, glaring daggers at him. “What was that all about? I mean, could you have been any ruder?”

“If I tried,” he retorted, annoyed, but sighed then, and spoke quickly before Wally could get in a decent lecture. “The last thing I need is to encourage some fan girl,” he said. “Bats would have my head.”

“She seemed rather nice, if you ask me,” Artemis commented matter-of-factly, biting off half a fry.

M’gann nodded quietly, too.

“Robin does have a point,” Kaldur said, though he did sound a might reluctant admitting it. “We cannot have any civilian relations. It would only put them, and our secret identities, at risk.”

“But, _dude_ , she was hot—ack!” Wally choked on the last word. “What the—” he rubbed the back of his head, scowled at Artemis. She raised an innocent eyebrow at him, but M’gann opposite her was hiding a smile behind her hand. “I-only- _meant_ ,” Wally started at her through his grit teeth, but then turned back to Dick, “Dude could do with a girlfriend.”

“ _What?_ ” Dick flinched. “Don’t be stupid, Wa—K.F. I do not.”

“Well, maybe not _you_ , Robin. But the other guy.”

“Who says the other guy doesn’t have one?”

“I can sense these things.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dick replied, waving a hand at his friend, before he stood up from the seat.

“Hey – where’re you going?”

“Menus,” he said over his shoulder, making his way toward the counter. “Kaldur wanted menus.”

“Oh…right…”

Dick sighed, and slowed his pace, passing a few smaller booths, a table or two, as he made his way to the counter, thinking.

He’d been rude. He’d definitely been rude. He knew that. Only, he couldn’t help it. He was annoyed that she’d recognized him, because he was with his friends. None of them had known he’d swept her off her feet and out of the way of a falling building on their mission earlier in the week. She’d been like his secret. He’d taken her home after the mission was over, making up some story to cover with the Team that he couldn’t even remember any more, and they’d talked nonstop all the way.

She’d smiled at him. Her smile had made him smile.

It was nice, but it was pointless, and he’d gone back home perfectly aware and content with it. And then she popped up out of nowhere, and now everyone knew about her and Wally was making a big deal. No more secret.

He sighed, smiling politely at the girl behind the counter, who was blushing bright red and gave him a nod as he reached for their menus, thinking at least he still had her name all to himself.

_Raquelle._

Almost smiling, almost entertaining the thought of looking her up later to apologize for his inexplicably rude behaviour, he strolled back to his seat, handing out menus as he sat down.

He was staring at the list of drinks without taking them in, when Wally suddenly set his own menu down and turned to him, “So, Rob…you ever catch her name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random piece of trivia: I'd forgotten Rocket's real name is also Raquel. I'd heard it somewhere else and decided to use it for this character, only to discover later there was already a canon character with the name. XP At least I'd spelled it differently, so there's some differentiation for the reader. Also, I didn't mind so much since a lot of DC characters share names - like Jason Todd and Jason Blood, or Cassandra Sandsmark and Cassandra Cain. So I kept it. :)


	4. Heart to Heart ch 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted 23 Nov 2013.

**Heights**

Thinking fast, catching sight of the best spot his line would take to, Robin aimed his grapple gun, fired, and then he jumped.

The line snapped taut and Robin swung through the air, dark cape billowing behind him, lower and lower until he was gliding just above the ground in front of the quickly crumbling building. The lowest floors were collapsing in on themselves, but the higher ones were buckling, falling forward – heading right for him.

However, the Boy Wonder hadn’t swung into the falling building’s way to put himself in danger.

Among the crowd of people that had run, screaming, terrified, from the building once it got hit, one had been pushed aside, lost her footing, and was only just now picking herself off the ground.

Someone had to save her, Robin had figured, a little smirk on his face – the rest of the Team could handle Clayface and the others for a while without him.

Swinging past the front of the building, Robin held out one arm and caught the girl, who wasn’t much bigger than himself, around the waist, and swept her off the ground in one fluid motion.

“Hold on!” he said to her.

“Dude!” she yelped, her right arm tightening round the back of his neck, “How ‘bout a warning next time?”

“Hey, I just saved your life,” Robin said, a little indignant, as he shifted his weight, aiming for a balcony railing ahead to land on.

“I’m not ungrateful,” the girl said, suddenly clinging to him with her other arm as well, “Just scared of heights!”

Robin pushed a button on his grapple gun, snapping the line from his gadget as he landed perfectly on the balcony’s railing, his companion a little less sturdily finding her feet beside him, but finding them nonetheless. Behind them, his line disappeared beneath the falling rubble.

“Oh,” Robin said, smiling down at the girl. She looked up at him with her brown eyes, but didn’t move her head – or the rest of her, either; she was stiffly clinging to him, clearly afraid she might fall if she let go. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” she mumbled into his shoulder, where she’d hidden her face when they’d swung through the air.

Robin only smiled, and turned a little to look over his shoulder. The building he’d saved her from was in ruins, and great big clouds of dust that had risen from the disaster still hung in the air. He sighed, content – at least no one else had been in there.

_“Robin – move!”_ M’gann’s voice echoed in his mind even as Robin saw the large, solid rock projectiles shooting through the sky toward him.

“Sorry,” he said, quickly aiming his grapple gun at a nearby building, “You’re going to have to be scared a little longer.” Robin fired, a new line instantly shooting off toward its target. Robin hopped off the railing, holding onto the girl with his free arm. She clung to him tighter, if that were possible, and, Robin could’ve sworn, mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “I remember why I stopped doing this…” against his shoulder.

Shifting his weight as they swung, Robin rounded the building he’d attached his line to, landing them on the roof of a smaller building next to it.

_“Dude? Rob?”_ Wally’s voice.

_“I’m fine. I’ll be there in a sec.”_

“You can let go,” Robin chuckled, putting his grapple gun away, the line having retracted with the push of another button.

“Oh,” said the girl, a little breathlessly, and then, slowly, she released her death grip on him and took a step back. She heaved a sigh of relief and offered him a strained smile, “Great job, fly boy,” she said. “Let’s never do that again.”

Robin blinked, “Boy Wonder,” he corrected.

“What?”

“My _name_ ,” Robin replied. “It’s ‘the Boy Wonder’, not ‘fly boy’.”

“Oh,” she said, but frowned then, “So what’s the ‘R’ stand for?” she asked, and poked at the symbol on his chest, flinching back when his suit suddenly went into stealth mode. “Dude!” she exclaimed. “What was that?”

“Stealth mode,” he said dryly, pressing the symbol again. His suit went back to normal.

“The black’s not a bad look,” she commented with a shrug and Robin tried not to roll his eyes.

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” he retorted. “I’m _Robin_. Robin, the Boy Wonder.”

Her eyes widened a little as if in recognition, and she nodded, “Robin. I get it – robins have red chests,” she smiled. “It does make more sense.”

“Great. I’m glad you get it,” Robin said stiffly. “Now, if you’re alright, I need to—”

“Oh!” she cut in. “Robin! As in, Batman’s side-kick! That makes _much_ more sense.”

“Of course she’d know Batman…” Robin mumbled, feeling deflated.

She didn’t seem to hear, “I thought Robin was a short, thin little kid though,” she gestured with one hand a height at least three heads shorter than Robin. “But you’re… _tall_. And…buff and muscly,” she gave his chest a light punch, hitting stealth mode again. “Oops,” she pressed the _R_ on his chest with three fingers before Robin could, and grinned sheepishly up at him, “Sorry…” she rubbed the back of her neck, her cheeks going pink – something Robin only noticed because his mask gave him a lighter view of his surroundings in the night-time. He half smiled.

“First time meeting a superhero,” she was still speaking, waving one hand through the air. “First time being saved by one…Oh, well no – there was a bus, in Metropolis once. But that was really ‘save the bus’, more than ‘save the girl who just happens to be on the bus’, so this is a first – I’m sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed—”

“Don’t be,” he cut her off, putting one hand on her shoulder. “Just stay whelmed.”

For a second she just stared at him, and then kind of snorted, “Damn, dude. You make that face at all the distressed damsels you save?”

“Er—” he blushed, taken aback, and slipped his hand off her shoulder. But, she smiled kindly at him then, and Robin smiled back. “As I was saying – superhero and all – I kind of have a big bad guy to beat up, so—” he stepped back, intending to step onto the low wall surrounding the roof so he could swing from there and get back to the action, but the girl caught hold of his wrist for a second to stop him.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me up here. I need to go home.”

“Stairs are back there,” he gestured. “Just follow them down. Catch a cab home,” he shrugged.

“Oh, wouldn’t you know it,” she said, a might sarcastically, as she dug into her jean’s pockets, and pulled them inside out for him to see, “No money.”

Robin paused, taking a second to look her over. All he’d really taken in with his first glance was her straight, light blonde hair, hanging down past her shoulders. But, looking over her outfit now, Robin could see her jeans were frayed, her boots dirty, and her jacket at least one size too big. She was a thin girl and it was baggy on her, the sleeves probably longer than her arms, explaining why she’d rolled them up despite the chill in the air.

“Where do you live?” Robin asked, thinking she was probably…homeless? An orphan? _Some_ thing, anyway.

“Err…” she paused. “You know, it’s… in town, not _very_ far from here. Though I don’t actually know how to get there from here…”

_“Robin? Where have you gone?”_

_“Yeah, dude – what happened to ‘a sec’?”_

_“In a minute, guys!”_ he snapped back in his head, a little louder than he’d meant. He could practically _feel_ Wally’s mind flinch in reply. _“I just_ need _to take care of something.”_

“Are you listening?”

“Sorry,” Robin said. “Here, I’ll tell you what…” he dug into a pocket on his utility belt, retrieving a single earpiece. “Put this in your ear, it’s linked to mine,” he handed it to her, and she obeyed. “Press on it once to activate it, and then I’ll hear what you’re saying. And one more time to deactivate it,” she nodded as he spoke, testing it out with a mumbled “Robin” that echoed in his ear. He gave her a nod. “When you hear the fighting’s died down, remind me with that, and I’ll come get you. Until then, just stay here?”

She nodded, “Okay.”

Robin hopped onto the low wall, aimed with his grapple gun and fired his line.

“By the way,” she said from behind. “Thanks – for saving me.”

“Just doing my job,” he grinned at her over his shoulder, making her smile. Robin dived off the building, and into a swing, heading back to where he could still faintly hear some of the fighting going on. She wasn’t far from the commotion, but at least she was safe. Clayface and the others had been heading in the opposite direction.

Getting back to his teammates, Robin made a _quiet_ mental note, to ask the girl her name when he went back for her later.


	5. Heart to Heart ch 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted 10 Dec 2013.  
> By this time I'd already started writing _Fearless_.

**Fainted**

Bruce had redirected the call to his cell phone and had gone to answer it inside the house. Plainly it was League business he didn’t want Dick to overhear. The Boy Wonder might have slipped out of the cave and gone to eavesdrop were it not for the charge he was left with.

She lay on their examination table, on a white blanket, a fluffy pillow under her head, seeming perfectly content. One wouldn’t have thought she’d been infected with a modified Joker Venom only a few hours before.

Dick had taken to pacing up and down, somewhat frustrated – partially by Batman’s secrecy (but on the other hand that was probably just Robin’s…pride, in how he’d come to assume he’d always be told _everything_ , so that, when it didn’t happen it left him annoyed) and partially by how long their guest had been out after she was infected, combined with how long she stayed out after being cured…it didn’t bode well. Probably. Hopefully not. But probably.

Dick shook his head, trying not to think about it. Another minute later and he stopped pacing as well, deciding he was doing himself no good getting worked up this way.

He took a seat on a table not far from her, and then…sat there. Staring a little.

Alfred had patched up her cheek where Joker’s poisonous blade had cut her rather nicely, and without disturbing her domino mask. It had interesting edges, almost making it look as though her eyes were surrounded by wings.

Robin had never seen this vigilante before, with her lengthy raven hair and pale skin. He was pretty sure her outfit was one of those dresses ice-skaters wore, along with a black jacket and leggings, and pixie boots.

She was pretty and all, but that wasn’t why he was sort of staring. He was thinking. Intently. She intrigued him for two reasons: the first, because he didn’t know her, or knew _of_ her, and the second because he not only thought he should have – it was partially his town after all, one would think he knew who roamed his streets in a mask besides himself – but also because she had _sounded_ familiar.

Robin had somewhat of a knack for recognizing voices. He and Kid Flash had spent endless hours watching obscure, relatively unpopular animated movies, competing to see who could identify more of the cast first. Whenever KF won it was because he’d cheated and searched the actors online beforehand.

Robin was trying to remember her voice from several hours ago, and had been running what words he did recall through his head all night since he’d come to again, so he wouldn’t forget the sound of it. _“Pretty eyes? Sense of humour? Someone say ‘jackpot’?”_

Despite his fervent trying, however, Robin couldn’t put his finger on it. It was more than just the sound of her voice, though; it was the _way_ she’d spoken. It was throwing him off – he’d never heard anyone speak like that before. Despite the familiarity in the sound of it, he couldn’t put her voice to any face he’d seen before, because none of them fit the personality.

He was frowning after a while of intense thinking. He wished she’d just wake up already, so he could talk to her and figure this out.

And then, abruptly, she gave one violent jerk – making Robin jump off his perch atop the table and run to her side – before snapping erect with a desperate, ragged intake of breath like she’d just broken through the ocean’s surface and no air could have been sweeter.

“H-Hey—” Robin didn’t know what to say, or do exactly, so whatever was coming out of his mouth was completely unplanned. “You’re okay – you’re alright—”

She was breathing heavily, each breath producing a soft squeak in the back of her throat. She sat stiffly erect, and though he wanted to put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down, Robin wasn’t sure it would work, so he didn’t. With one shaky hand she reached up to her throat, holding it desperately with her fingers. “ _W-water_ ,” she croaked. “Water…!”

“Er, right,” Robin’s brain caught up to him and he dashed off, returning quickly with a glass of cool liquid. He held it out to her, putting his hand on her shoulder after all, though it happened more reflexively than anything else.

She leaned forward until she’d reached the glass with her lips, instead of taking it with one of her trembling hands, and Robin helped her drink. Slowly, at first, but before long she was gulping it down eagerly, both her hands clutching the glass as well as Robin’s hand.

Her hands shook, making her spill some of the water down her chin, but she didn’t stop drinking.

“Er…slow down,” Robin muttered half-heartedly, but seeing her so anxious for the drink, he couldn’t find it in himself to pull the glass away from her.

“ _More_ ,” she gasped, after the last sip, and Robin complied at once, thinking desperately to himself, _Where the_ hell _did Bats go? Or, Alfred even! What am I supposed to do with her?_

Three glasses later her fingers were trembling a whole lot less. She sighed, gratefully, he thought, as she lowered the glass to her lap, seemingly unaware she still had Robin’s fingers in her grip too.

“Thanks…” she whispered, and all the stiffness seemed to finally melt out of her shoulders and arms as she sagged, lowering her head for a moment as well.

“Sure…” Robin was saying, watching her closely, carefully. “You’re alright now?”

The smallest, softest of chuckles escaped her, and she let go of the glass to run her fingers across her forehead, through her hair, as she looked up at him, “I thought that’s what you said a minute ago…”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Robin’s mouth. He set the glass aside on the table. “It was more than a minute ago.”

“Meh,” she looked like she’d rolled her eyes at him. But then she was looking at him again, watching his face, and then taking in the rest of him by the way her head lowered a little. “You’re Robin,” she said, her voice still soft, like speaking any louder would hurt her throat. It probably would. But now she didn’t sound much like her flirtatious, exuberant _“Pretty eyes? Sense of humour? Someone say ‘jackpot’?”_ that he’d been trying to put a familiar face to.

“And you’re…” Robin stretched the last word, but since he didn’t know, he had no choice but to admit it, “Well. I don’t know. You want to tell me?”

“Say please,” she gave him a cheeky half-smile, and he put on the gentlest – because, she was still recovering from a deadly poison, after all – glare that he could even though he wanted to smile back.

“It wasn’t really a question.”

Another roll of her eyes, and as she spoke she looked away from him, looking at her surroundings for the first time. “I don’t have one.” She flinched a little, put a few fingers to the bandage on her cheek, like the effort of talking and smiling was tugging at her cut.

“What?”

“I mean, I haven’t thought of one yet. So, you know, I don’t _have_ one.”

“Vigilante without a name…”

“Superhero,” she corrected, raising a finger at him, “Without a name.”

“You’re not a superhero,” he countered, crossing his arms. “You’re in over your head, that’s what you are.”

“I have superpowers,” she was saying even as he spoke, and while her voice was mostly still a throaty whisper, it was getting some of its vocals back. She’d pulled up her legs and shifted so she sat on her haunches, and then, before Robin could retort, she’d flashed him another smile and jumped upwards.

Robin took a couple steps back, arms unfolding as he stared up at her – she was floating a couple feet above his head.

She gave a laugh at his surprised expression, and smiled a half-mouthed smile that turned into a frown.

She seemed to sway, and lifted a hand to her head before she dropped.

It wasn’t falling, exactly, she just descended rather quick, landing perfectly on her feet. At least, it would have seemed perfect if she hadn’t lost her footing upon landing, fainting forward. Robin acted instinctively, catching her around the waist and holding onto her as she hung limp in his arms.

“Um…”

For the briefest second he had no idea what to do.

But then he shifted her in his arms, holding onto her with one, before snatching her up with his other hand under her knees. She was light, and thin, he realized. In the way a person who hadn’t eaten much was thin.

That made him frown, and think a little, reminded of something – some _one_ , really – as he lay her back down on the table.

Robin watched her, biting his bottom lip, wondering what he’d see if he just happened to snatch off her mask. Then he had to berate himself for the thought – that was hardly a courtesy to a fellow crime-fighter.

He snorted a little at that, though – she was no crime-fighter.

“ _In_ over your head,” he mumbled.

She stirred, lifting her palm to her forehead, groaning. She turned her head to look at him, “What…?”

“You fell,” he offered. “And then fainted.”

“Oh…” she mumbled, and then sort of smiled. “Fun.”


	6. Heart to Heart ch 6

**Giggles**

The girl came erect, and Robin eyed her askance, ready to react if she fell over again or something.

She put a hand to her head though and stayed upright. “That…was a dizzying experience,” she said, with a half-hearted laugh. “Remind me what happened tonight?

“You and Bats were fighting the Joker earlier,” Robin said, and then gestured his cheek, “You got cut. Joker’s blade was laced with poison – some new kind our usual antidote had no effect against. So Batman and I brought you here, where we could conjure up a cure.”

He smirked, just a little pride-filled. They _had_ developed a cure and administered it in time and to seemingly positive results – although the dizziness _could_ end up being alarming… Too early to smirk, then.

She seemed to be staring at him, “You realize you just sort-of-rhymed, right?” her lips curled into a twitchy smile.

“What?” he hadn’t noticed.

“Uh, so, where is ‘here’ now?” she talked right on top of him, apparently having been rhetorical before.

But, she’d gotten to the important question – finally.

“The Batcave,” Robin replied with a grin, gesturing with his hands at their surroundings. “Of course.”

She nodded, her lips forming a comprehending ‘o’ as she turned around in her seat, taking it in properly for the first time. “Of… _course_. And yeah, just look…it’s big…and dark, and…damp… You must get this a lot, but you have a really _morbid_ decorator,” she teased, smiling back at him.

Robin chuckled, “Tell me about it.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, and leaned over to grab Robin by the arm with both hands. “The kid!”

“The what?” he leaned back, reflexively wanting to shake her off, but he didn’t.

“The kid – the boy! There was a boy with me – shortish, dark-haired, _really_ pretty eyes – he got smoked with Joker Venom and was laughing like crazy, but Batman gave me the antidote and I took him inside and I was looking after him when I started feeling funny – and not ‘haha’ funny, either. Where is he – is he okay?”

Robin gaped at her, blinking behind his mask. She talked almost as much, as fast, as Wally.

“He’s fine,” he said at least, but the anxious set to her lips didn’t change.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” Robin said, raising a hand to calm her down. “He made a full recovery. Batman got him home safe and everything,” _In the Batmobile. First class ride._ He smiled reassuringly at her and it seemed to have worked.

She visibly relaxed, sighing as she smiled, “Good. If that boy’s eyes were lost to the world it would have been the crime _of the century_ ,” she said. “They were _gorgeous_.” She’d let him go, and turned away.

Thank the heavens, because she didn’t see his face flush at her words. He could _feel_ the heat setting his cheeks on fire.

“I swear…I’ve never seen anything so blue,” she was still mumbling. “…I should’ve asked him his name.”

Robin turned his back on her; trying discreetly to rub at his cheek like that would help.

_Batman – where the hell are you?!_

Robin scowled. This was stupid. Artemis had said something similar about Dick Grayson to Wally just the other day and Robin, not two feet away, hadn’t even flinched. He did grin stupidly at Wally behind Artemis’s back though, just to watch his best friend seethe a little, jealous.

“So, you want to maybe show me the door?”

“No!” Robin snapped around, only to find the table empty, “You can’t…leave yet.”

“Over here, Masked Wonder.”

He turned. She was wandering around aimlessly, looking up and down the cave walls, glancing at the computer, the stairs…

“ _Boy_ Wonder,” he corrected automatically, and then marched up to her. “And you can’t leave yet. For one thing, we should still run some tests, see if the poison hasn’t had any side-effects—”

“I feel fine,” she cut in, walking ahead of him. She wouldn’t stand still, so Robin was just trailing behind her as he’d talked. “Perfectly healthy…” she giggled. Again. Once more, a little longer, a little more insanely this time. And then she wouldn’t stop.

Startled, panicked, Robin caught the laughing girl by her shoulders and spun her round to face him, but the moment they were eye to eye – or, mask to mask, really – she’d shut up, giving him a very deadpan look.

“I’m kidding.”

He gaped at her.

“That’s not funny!” the blush was back, if it hadn’t just been subtly lingering.

“I thought it was hilarious,” she smirked, winced, and put a hand to her cheek.

“At this rate you’re going to pull your stitches,” Robin admonished, and let her go.

She ignored him.

“You were saying about that door…?” she started walking again, eyeing him cheekily over her shoulder.

“I wasn’t,” he said curtly. “Batman will want to talk to you – you’re a rogue vigilante in his city, and he doesn’t like that kind of thing—”

“‘ _Rogue_ ’,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. She turned to him, “Look, I don’t have _time_ to talk to your daddy Bats – I have somewhere to be. Do you have a watch?”

“He’s not my father,” Robin said pointedly, scowling at her. “And no. No watch.”

Of course he had a watch. Bruce was paranoid about time. _Knowing_ the time. _Being_ on time.

_Should change his gimmick to Time Man._ Robin rolled his eyes with a shift of his head.

“Well, no need to be so rude about it,” the girl said, making the Boy Wonder roll his eyes again – half at himself and half at her for thinking he’d been rolling them at her the first time.

Robin didn’t reply, though, and the girl held her peace as well. She started drifting through the cave again and Robin eyed her from where he stood, back straight, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

She was walking on tiptoe every other pace, turning in her step, looking up at the high ceiling of the cave. It was so far up it was hard to even see. There weren’t any lights up there. Only darkness. And bats.

Robin watched her walk, contemplating whether he should suggest she rather sit down, wondering if he could wheedle her real name out of her, or get her to explain what she’d been doing around his school in the dead of night – or, better yet, what she was doing being all…’vigilant’ in the first place.

This was no job for an amateur, and she was definitely that.

“What if I fight you for it?” she asked abruptly.

“For what?”

“The location of the door.”

He snorted, “You couldn’t beat me.”

“Oh, yeah?” she smirked a little, arms crossed over her chest, her chin lifted defiantly. “Well, let’s find out.”

“I’m not fighting you,” he said. “You were poisoned and wounded. It’d be unfair. Besides,” he added, before her parted lips could manage an utterance, “Even if you knew where the door was, you wouldn’t get out.”

That seemed to shut her up, but only for a moment. Lips pursed tightly, she scowled at him, apparently contemplating something.

Robin watched her carefully – careful not to blink, but of course he had to. And then, in another instant, she’d pushed up off the ground and was sprinting through the air towards him.


	7. Heart to Heart ch 7

**Embrace**

“Pop it…?”

Robin gave a slight nod, eyebrows raised behind his mask in anticipation.

“Just…pop it right back in there…”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Robin replied, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt – they really didn’t have time for such hesitation. “Now, come on—”

But Raquelle was slowly shaking her head. Robin had the impression she was shifting her eyes from his dislocated shoulder, to his face and back like she was trying to discern whether or not he was serious. “I…I don’t think I want to,” she mumbled finally.

Robin couldn’t help the annoyed look that crossed his face, “Come _on_ , don’t be squicky – you can do this.”

“What is ‘squicky’ supposed to mean?” she frowned at him.

Robin waved a hand – the good one – “It’s something Wally says, never mind. Just pop back my shoulder. You want me to explain it again?”

“Your explanation is terrible,” she muttered, dropping her face in her hands and taking a breath, “It’s not that…” she ran her fingers through her hair and clutched at the dark strands like she just needed _something_ to hold onto. “You’re all…this is… _insane_.”

Robin cocked an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something, but then she really looked up at him and her expression drew him up short. It looked… _broken_ , was the first word that came to mind; even with the mask covering her eyes.

“Your shoulder’s _dislocated_ , you’re _bleeding_ ,” she released her hair to poke a finger at his upper arm, where Joker’s knife had cut through his suit.

“It’s hardly a scratch,” Robin felt the need to defend, but she was ignoring him.

“We’re in a _vent!_ ” she choked on the word, waving her arm through the narrow space around them. She took a deep breath, no longer meeting his gaze.

Robin thought – feared – for a moment she might start hyperventilating. But then she shook her head. “I’m not cut out for this, Robin,” she said in a small, cracked voice.

“Yes, you are,” he said at once, gripping her shoulder with his one available hand. “You’re a superhero—”

“I’m _not_ ,” she protested at once, looking up at him again, and in the glow of the light from above, Robin could see the sparkle of tears across her cheeks. “I’m in over my head, I’ve always been…”

Robin swallowed, not certain of what exactly to say. He remembered well enough telling her the very same thing the first time they met. Only, since then, he thought she’d sort of changed his mind. Or, if nothing else, she was well on her way to proving him wrong.

But that wouldn’t happen if she quit now.

“Sky,” he started, but she shook her head vigorously.

“ _No_ ,” she said, her voice uneven. “I can’t do this. I’ve been kidding myself. Just _faking_ it, but I’m not… I’m not making it. I can’t do this anymore – I don’t _want_ to.”

Robin just sort of stared at her. This was no time for a breakdown, neither was it the time to quit – they were in the middle of a raging battle, for heaven’s sake!

He set his jaw, screwed up his face into the Batliest Batglare he could manage, and cut into her pathetic whimpering with a rough voice, “You have no choice!” he snapped, and it almost made him flinch the way she recoiled from his tone. But she needed to hear this. Robin had needed to hear it a few times himself before. Every hero did. But taking up the mask and – _or_ , if you were Superman – cape wasn’t something you did lightly. And once you were in it, there was no “can’t do it” anymore. You train and you tried until you could.

And then it was in you. It was always in you. And the only choice was to _finish it_. Take it to the grave, if that’s what it took.

“We’re in this now and we’re not getting out by giving up,” Robin said, shaking her roughly by the shoulder. “We’re the team’s only hope right now. We’re being _attacked_ , and I need you—”

“ _Exactly!_ ” she hissed. “We’re _being attacked_! What kind of teenager spends their Sunday being _attacked_?!”

“Keep your voice down!” he snapped quietly, glaring at her.

She didn’t flinch this time, though. Instead, she shoved his hand off her shoulder and ripped off her mask so he could see her glaring back at him.

It wasn’t the glare so much as the redness of her eyes, the glittering wetness all across her skin, trailing pathways down her cheeks, that made _him_ recoil in surprise for a change.

How long had she been quietly crying without him noticing?

“I have had _enough_ ,” she said fiercely, but quietly. “Of course I want to save the team; they’re my friends, too. But, if we actually _live_ through this,” fresh tears brimmed her eyes and she blinked them loose. “I am _done_. I am never coming back, and I _never_ want to—” her voice cracked, and she sobbed, slapping a hand to her mouth to muffle the noise. “To see any— _any_ of you—ever again,” she finished through her tears, her eyes no longer on him.

“Raquelle…” he breathed, no other words making it past the lump in his throat. Never see them again? But, she… _he_ …

Ugh – this just _sucked_ , too much.

Damn the damn Joker, and just— _everyone!_

She was sobbing quietly into the palm of her hand, shoulders shaking, trying desperately to quit her crying before the sound echoed through the vents and betrayed their location.

“I’d…hug you,” Robin said feebly, and made a half-hearted gesture toward his arm, “But, my shoulder…”

Something between a sob and a laugh escaped her lips, and she looked up, smiling behind her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and wiped at her tears with the palm of one hand while the other reached for his wrist. “Come here…”

For a second he thought she was going to scoot closer for a one-armed hug, but instead she started pressing buttons on his glove, bringing up the computer.

Robin stared. “What are you doing?” he asked, meaning the actual doing as much as _how_ she knew how to work his glove. It was purposely complicated so not just anyone could use it all willy-nilly.

“I’m _Googling_ how to relocate your shoulder,” she said, and sniffed. “Because your explanation _sucks_ …and I really need a hug,” she added with a mumble.

Robin couldn’t help but smile. He made a mental note to ask her later how she knew the way his glove worked, though.

Her eyes flit across the page she’d pulled up, her lips pursed as she read in silence.

She couldn’t _really_ mean… The smile slipped from Robin’s face. She was stubborn, and she’d been serious…she really _would_.

“Okay,” she said at last, and shifted a little closer to him, shutting off the glove. “Move, this way,” she snapped him from his reverie, and Robin shifted as instructed, so he sat next to her instead of facing her, his shoulder illuminated in the light overhead.

“So,” she said, sounding a little breathless. He watched her from the corner of his eyes as she took hold of his arm, carefully bending his elbow. “You want to…bite down on your cape or something?” she asked, a little laugh in her tone.

Robin smiled, “No, thanks. I can handle it.”

“Probably done this a hundred times before, huh?” she asked quietly.

“Not as many as you’d think,” he replied. “Is why I can’t really do it myself…Bats usually does.”

“Does he insist on any cape-biting?” she asked, licking her lips, her eyes on his arm like she was just working up the nerve to finally do something with it.

“No,” Robin replied. “He…distracts me…”

“Like how?” she asked curiously, making Robin frown.

“Er…yeah, I’m not telling you,” he said dismissively, looking away from her. “It’s embarrassing.”

She pouted, “But now I really want to know…”

“We don’t have time for this,” he scowled.

“Just tell me what it is, and we can move on,” she smirked at him.

Robin rolled his eyes. It was going to be now or later – he might as well.

So, with a groan, he mumbled his reply.

She blinked at him. “Sorry, I…I didn’t hear that…?

“He…makes me sing,” Robin growled.

Raquelle blinked again, but her lips curled into an amused smile. “ _Really_?”

Robin sighed, defeated. He glared daggers at the walls surrounding them as he explained, “Yeah, really. He waits until I get really into it, too, before he just, _pops_ it right ba—argh! Ah!” belatedly, Robin clasped his hand over his mouth to cut off the sound, as he turned his scowl on Raquelle.

She shrugged, smiled half-heartedly at him. “Sorry? Did I do it right?” she asked, looking a little nervous, as she gently pressed his forearm against his chest and let go.

Robin felt at his shoulder, shifted it a little, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s good. Thanks.”

She nodded, but her eyes weren’t on him anymore. She was looking at her mask, still lying right where she’d discarded it before.

She looked almost…sad.

She must have just been about to reach for it, or say something, when Robin cut her off, wrapping his good arm right around her shoulders and pulling her close against his chest, his other arm gently around her waist.

“What are you doing?” she breathed, startled, her limbs stiff in his grasp.

“You said you needed a hug…”

She relaxed at once, burying her head into his shoulder, “Oh, Robin…” she whispered, slipping her hands up his chest, settling one around his neck, “I don’t think _I_ need a hug,” she wrapped her other arm around him, clutching at his cape, “ _Half_ as much as you do.”

She squeezed him tight.


	8. Heart to Heart ch 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter I posted. By this time I guess I'd lost interest? Also, whatever readers there had been had lost interest, too, and _Fearless_ was doing well and taking up my time, so. I let this go.

**Identity**

When Bruce gets off the phone with Clark he doesn’t go back down to the cave right away. Instead, he uses the computer in his office to do some research on their…guest.

Alfred, always the better medic – Bruce has a guilty twinge in his gut over the fact, but he has given the butler experience enough – cleaned the girl’s wound and stitched up her cheek well enough. Initial tests had shown that their rushed antidote had done its job in counter-acting the Joker Venom in her system, despite having been administered so late.

Any more information will have to wait until she wakes up.

But, not the case of her identity, though.

Bruce connects to the Batcave’s computer system to check the fingerprint results, but it’s still loading. So he leans back in his seat, props his elbows onto the desk and laces his fingers in front of his face, which had taken on a pondersome expression.

As if one rogue vigilante in his city hadn’t been enough, he now had another – much _more_ inexperienced – kid to deal with.

He’d left Robin to look after the girl while he spoke to Clark – League business he’d have to get back to _later_ , since the girl had to take precedence for now. A somewhat tedious decision, but there it was. The League could handle things without him for a little while longer.

He’d started the scan on her identity as soon she’d been patched up and injected with the cure, and had decided not to head back to the cave and look up the results there sometime during his conversation with Clark. Surely the girl must have woken up by now, and he wanted to be prepared with as much knowledge about her as he could find before confronting her.

His program was admittedly running a little slow, though. Perhaps Robin could fix that later. If it wasn’t just that the girl was a hard person to find.

Of course, her superhero identity wouldn’t be written in any record, but Bruce had to tentatively admit that his ward had some charm – not a thing he’d been wanting to think about for some time yet, but there you go – and he’d probably be able to get one name from the girl when she woke up.

The question of her identity, though, Bruce reflected, as he sat up straight to check the finally appearing results on his search, was not the bigger issue here.

The bigger issue was what he was going to do with said identity.

One of the reasons they’d recruited Artemis two years ago, Batman never actually voiced, was to keep her off his streets.

Bruce was just wondering whether they’d need to do the same with this new ‘hero’ as he wandered down the steps of the Batcave, when Robin’s still signature cackle echoed through the cave and made the Batman pause.

Silent in his step, even his ward hadn’t heard him, leaving Batman free to observe the scene below unnoticed. In Robin’s defence, the boy was somewhat otherwise occupied, so no wonder he hadn’t taken care to listen for his mentor’s approach.

From his higher perch on the stairs, Batman watched his partner spar against their unidentified vigilante – not exactly the kind of scene the Bat had expected to walk in on, but instead of breaking them up just yet, he decided to study the girl’s movements instead.

No doubt Robin was doing much the same. He’d have to explain how they ended up in a little fight later on, though. Just as soon as Batman and the girl had a talk.

“That’s better,” Batman heard the girl say, as she skipped back out of Robin’s reach. Robin wasn’t fighting her as much as either dodging her half-hearted hits, or trying to grab a hold of her. “Joker had one thing right, at least,” she said, and Batman raised an unseen eyebrow behind his cowl. “Laughing _is_ good for the soul.”

_But too much can kill you._

She was grinning at Robin, who’d sprinted forward with another attempted grab at her, but the Boy Wonder stopped short at her words. Batman wasn’t certain what about them exactly had made Robin pause, but it was enough of an opening for the girl to counter attack.

She moved swiftly, gliding towards him in a second, dropping to the ground and sweeping a steady leg across the floor, aiming to trip him.

But Batman had taught Robin better than that, and he hopped off the floor to miss the offending limb. The girl, however, must have seen it coming, because she barely finished the move before jumping into the air and diving Robin to the ground.

A triumphant “Ha!” echoed through the cave as she sat on top of his stomach and pinned down his wrists with her hands. “Gotcha.”

Robin might have done something to help himself out of his position – there were several ways of getting out of it, and it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d needed to either – but Batman had seen enough and chose that instance to intervene.

“Robin.”

The single word was enough to catch his protégé’s – and the girl’s – attention.

She had more of a reaction, practically jumping off Robin almost at once, floating back a ways from Robin before touching down to the floor, her hands behind her back, and her eyes on Batman as he descended the stairs.

“Bats—” Robin had said, when he’d looked round at the sound of his mentor’s voice, and then, with the weight of the girl lifted, he’d gotten languidly to his feet, even taking the time to dust off his suit. “What took you so long?”

“I was looking into something,” Batman replied, and came to stand next to Robin, who followed his mentor’s lead in facing the girl. She crossed her arms when his gaze settled on her, and frowned slightly at him.

“Batman… you…look taller, when you’re standing straight,” she said, one hand emerging to gesture up and down at him for a moment. “And, you know…not saving my bacon,” she shrugged one shoulder, glanced away.

But Batman’s attention was drawn to his partner, not missing the tight-lipped frown crossing Robin’s face at the girl’s words. He was…contemplating something, clearly. But what, and what conclusion he was trying to come to, Batman couldn’t quite fathom. This was potentially alarming, since he generally knew most everything his ward was thinking.

“Thanks for that, by the way…” she mumbled, touching a hand to her cheek.

Batman gave a stiff nod in acknowledgement and changed the subject, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she answered at once, and gave him an unconvincing grin, “So, you could just point me in the direction of the door and I’ll get out of your hair! You know, if you have any, under that,” she pointed a finger at him, twirled it around, and then blushed. “Not that, it looks like you don’t – have hair, I mean – because you don’t look that old. I mean, not that I can tell, or anything, since, with the mask – cowl – what do you call that?”

Batman was raising a discreet eyebrow as the girl rambled on, even more inconspicuously directing it at Robin, who shot back an amused grin and a shrug.

“But, the point is, I’m totally grateful, and in your debt you big, black, scary bat, but _fine_ , so you can just show me out and I’ll be on my way…Okay?”

“Apparently,” Robin said. “She has somewhere to be.”

“Oh?” said Batman, and the girl shot a very deliberate scowl Robin’s way.

The Boy Wonder shrugged without care.

“It’s…well, it’s fine. I can be a _little_ late for that,” she said, pinching the air between her forefinger and thumb.

“Good. Because I’d like to know to whom I should address that debt.”

“Er…well, see…”

“She doesn’t have a name.”

“Your real name, then,” Batman said.

“That kind of defeats the point of a secret identity, don’t you think?” she replied dryly.

“I was being polite,” Batman said, walking over to the cave’s computer, its large screen illuminating a moderate part of the cave.

He heard Robin follow, and the girl trudged after them slowly a moment later.

“Batman,” he heard Robin mutter, “You didn’t…” but he ignored the boy, fingers gliding across the keyboard to bring up the results of his find.

When he turned back to his companions, Robin was gaping at the screen, and the girl rubbing nervously at one arm.

“I _knew_ it…” Robin breathed, taking Batman aback. Obviously, he didn’t show his surprised.

Illuminated before them on the screen was a juvenile record for one R.C. Hart, and a shot of the, then, 14 year old girl, her light blonde hair hanging in waves to her shoulders and a scowl on her delicate features. Her skin was sunburnt and her face covered in freckles, painting so deep a contrast against the pale, raven-haired, older girl in the cave, that Batman might have second-guessed the results if she hadn’t looked so guilty.

Not to mention Robin’s reaction.

“ _Raquelle?_ ” he said, turning to face her. “I _knew_ it was you! You _talk_ like her, you _sound_ just like her. But, the hair, and…and I thought you’re _afraid_ of heights! But you _fly_?”

She’d had her eyes on the ground as he’d spoken, but spared him a glance at last, spots of colour touching her cheeks. “I…maybe exaggerated, that last bit?” she shrugged one shoulder, biting her bottom lip. “As for the hair…” she rolled her eyes. “I suppose I might as well,” and then, pushing off her mask to pull it back over her head, she ran her fingers through her hair as she did so.

Black roots turned light blonde, and the colour seeped down through her strands, dyeing her hair instantly.

When she looked up, her deep brown eyes fell on Robin, and her lips twitched into a half-smile for only a second, an apprehensive expression on her face.

“Raquelle…” Robin repeated. “It really _is_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly certain I meant for the 'C' to stand for Catherine or Cait or some such.


	9. Fearless Prologue: Part1 ch1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Team find themselves on a trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best advice I can give you, to help you understand this (cartoon Young Justice) fic, is to pay attention to the headings. They explain everything. Also, it's probably good to read the first six chapters in one sitting...

**{bodies}**

**Part One: Robin.**

**Chapter One.**

The sight of it sent Robin’s – _Dick’s_ – mind hurtling back into a somewhat buried memory. Of course it was impossible to forget this memory entirely, and, painful though it was, a large chunk of him never _wanted_ to forget it. The rest of him didn’t want to be constantly reminded of it either, though. So the boy had wrapped it up, with his old red, blue and yellow uniform, knotting it tightly, before he stuffed it somewhere in the back of his mind – for safekeeping. Other memories had since then clouded the way between the present and that past. His time as Robin – with Batman, with the Team, his friends. His time as Dick Grayson – with Bruce Wayne, with Alfred; with Wally, who wasn’t supposed to know, but did.

All of those loving, caring memories – times he was _so_ fond of – they all seemed to dissipate, making a clear path toward the one memory he’d kept hidden, for himself, for so long. And then it was in the forefront of his mind and he was suddenly reliving it.

Dick was on the trapeze, seemingly a million miles above the ground. He would swing – _fly_ – through the air, like a bird. A robin. A Grayson. But never alone – his parents, his aunt and uncle, his cousin, John, they would be by his side every swing of the way. Smiling. They were happy. They were a family. In every sense of the word.

And then he was sitting, on the platform of the centre pole, watching his family perform the grand finale to their routine. Secretly, a little pang of jealousy tugged at Dick’s insides – how he’d been wishing to be up there with them. Only, he was the youngest, it was too dangerous – mentally he’d scoff at that: they’d done it a thousand times, they were good, they knew the moves; nothing would ever happen. But John would smile at his cousin, and say he’d get his chance, just not now…and then, quite suddenly, not ever.

A woman screamed in the back of Dick’s mind, and voices echoed through his subconscious – distraught, terrified, confused, angry voices, he sometimes thought he was only imagining, before it all went eerily quiet not a second later.

He remembered only limbs then – could see them in his mind’s eye as he looked down. No longer _people_ , exactly. Not the way people were supposed to be. But rather… _bodies_. Twisted, broken, bent bodies, piled on top of each other, curling around each other, _dead_ upon one another.

And then he was Robin again, and the spotlight in the tent illuminating his family’s ruined limbs was a spotlight no more – but moonlight, shimmering through the clouds overhead. He was no longer on the centre platform in the circus tent, but on the edge of a tall building’s roof. Which building, in what part of the neighbourhood, at what time of night, Robin wouldn’t ever be able to guess at.

Everything had flown from his mind – everything but the memory – when he saw _it_.

Robin stared down at the alley below. His family’s lifeless corpses no longer filled his vision.

Instead, the darkness he stared at bore the outline of a black figure in its midst. Limbs contorted unnaturally, legs twisted beneath a heavy, muscular frame, arms bent and broken, bones protruding, blood spattered, neck wrung—

Robin stared.

His heart lurched.

His breath caught.

What was this?

_What was this?!_

This couldn’t be.

It _couldn’t_ be…

It wouldn’t.

Not—

—Batman.

Batman.

_Batman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prologue was posted to ff.net on 1 Dec 2013.


	10. Fearless 1: Part2 ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 4 Dec 2013.

**{in the gut}**

**Part Two: Red Arrow.**

**Chapter One.**

The door to the rooftop burst open unceremoniously, banging against the wall of the small square building housing the entrance to the stairs.

Red Arrow stepped out, arrow nocked and bow raised, string drawn tight. He stepped lightly, slowly, but alertly as he shifted around, looking for his quarry.

“You can see me…” he said, whispered almost. “Don’t play games.”

Silence.

He stepped farther into the open, turning as he went so as to keep a relatively even eye on every part of the roof. He was well aware that he was a perfect target, but he felt confident she wouldn’t strike him down from a distance. She’d want to talk to him first. Toy with him. That was her play. With a hint of agitation, he realized he was sort of counting on that right now.

“Come. _Out_ ,” he snapped into the night, frustration leaking into his voice. He gritted his teeth, “I know you’re here somewhere.”

“‘Somewhere’ is awfully vague,” her disembodied voice found his ears – from behind, he thought. Figures.

He spun, only to recoil at once before he’d even properly turned. Her sai whipped past his face, nicking him on the cheek and he winced, his fingers losing their grip on his bowstring, sending the arrow flying.

He muttered a curse, feeling stupid for having been caught so off guard, and immediately drew another arrow from his quiver, nocking it quickly and raising his bow.

She laughed a little at that, stepping forward into the light of the moon. She’d caught his stray arrow, was twirling it between her fingers. She glanced at the arrow in her hand and then looked at him, “A rather rude welcome, wouldn’t you say.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said.

“Touché” she replied, pointing the arrow at him, her eyes probably on the cut her sai had left. He could hear the smile in her tone. Of course she was smiling, though – it was all in the name, after all. Though, he didn’t think she’d taken the cat’s name for its grin alone.

“ _Where_ are they?” Red Arrow asked, probably cutting off something else she’d been about to say, but he hadn’t come for pleasantries and witty banter.

She made a noise that made him think she was pouting behind the mask, “Who?” she asked, too innocently.

“You _know_ who!” he snapped, releasing the arrow straight for her head. Which was, admittedly, rather stupid if it had hit, since he needed her alive to tell him what he wanted to know. Luckily – and at the same time he couldn’t believe _that_ was how he thought of it – she dodged neatly out of the way.

He’d nocked another arrow, fired it almost at once, but she saw, and stepped swiftly out of the way again – only, this time, he hadn’t been aiming for her. The arrow hit the brick wall behind her, and it exploded at once, the blast catching Cheshire off guard and sending her sprawling across the rooftop. Roy shot another arrow, this one aimed at her feet, as she made to get up. She wasn’t quick enough, and the arrow exploded into a cloud of polyurethane foam, trapping her up to her shoulders.

Cheshire struggled despite the fact it was obviously useless, and then she turned her sights on him for a different tactic. “You know, if you wanted me to stand still, all you had to do was ask.”

Red Arrow scowled, and pulled a pocket knife out from somewhere on his person. He flicked it open, advancing on Cheshire as he did so.

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“Hmmm…you’re too cute when you’re trying to be intimidating,” she mused teasingly, but Roy had had enough. He held the knife up to her neck, its tip only _just_ not touching her skin.

“What have you done with them?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Robin, and Kid Flash…?”

He watched her eyes narrow, imagined her lips turning into a smile behind the mask, “I imagine the rest of the team are pursuing some leads, aren’t they? Shouldn’t you be working _with them_ on this?”

“They could be moles and traitors for all I know – I don’t care what they do,” he snapped harshly. “I only want to save my _friends_.” Immediately after he said it, Red Arrow couldn’t help but wince. Sure, Sportsmaster had been the one to sow the seed concerning the mole, and Cheshire knew about it as well, without a doubt. But he hadn’t meant to mention anything about that or whom he suspected to her – now she knew; information she’d pass on to Sportsmaster, and they’d use it to tip off the mole. Roy scowled. What now? How could he fix this?

“Interesting theory,” Cheshire said. “And such loyalty to your ‘friends,’ I wonder if they deserve it…”

“Enough!” he used the knife to flick off her mask and it clattered on the ground, the only sound in the air for a moment. “I know Sportsmaster has them – tell me where and why if you want to live!”

She laughed heartily at that, but stopped a little abruptly when he pressed the blade to her neck again. Her voice hadn’t lost its mirth when she spoke, though, “I always knew there was a reason I liked you – deep down you really _are_ a bad boy.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Roy growled, ignoring her, “Then I’ll just have to force it out of you.”

“Ooh, _at least_ ask me on a date first,” Cheshire crooned, pouting.

Roy tightened the grip on his knife, and might have said something, might have done something, were it not for the soft flop of boots onto the rooftop behind him just then, and Green Arrow asking in a somewhat cautious tone, “Red Arrow…what are you doing?”

Not shifting his knife away from Cheshire’s neck, Roy moved just enough to look back at Oliver Queen over his shoulder.

“ _Busted_ ,” Cheshire whispered.

Red Arrow ignored her, barking at Green Arrow instead, “I’m doing what the rest of you won’t! I’m getting my friends back!”

“There’s a way of doing things. And this isn’t it,” Green Arrow replied, raising a hand as though gesturing for Roy to calm down. “Let’s take a breath before you do something you’ll regret—”

Only, Roy didn’t want to calm down – and how could Ollie expect him to? His friends were _missing_ , and not the Team or the League – or the freakin’ _Batman_ – were doing much to rectify that. It was up to him, and Cheshire was his best chance of finding his friends. This was the only way.

“Have you lost your mind?” Roy exploded, losing his grip on what little calm he had left, rather than feeling “turbed” by the meant-to-be soothing approach his ex-mentor was using. Mentally, Roy admitted to himself he’d been spending too much time with Robin…before the kid got napped, and now that time didn’t seem like enough yet.

“You certainly seem to have,” a new voice spoke from the other side of the roof, and Roy, more annoyed now with the additional interruption, turned around again. “Let’s see if we can help with that.”

Roy’s eyes hadn’t locked onto the owner of the voice, hidden somewhere in the shadows, yet, when two shots rang out quite suddenly, echoing through the air. At virtually the same moment, Green Arrow behind Roy let out a startling cry. Red Arrow’s blood ran cold at the sound of it, and he spun around, feeling desperately _frightened_.

“ _Ollie!_ ” he exclaimed, watching his mentor drop to one knee, crimson staining his green attire.

“Tut-tut, secret identities,” he was vaguely aware of Cheshire’s words, as he abandoned his knife to the rooftop and sped to Oliver’s side. The man had fallen backwards, one hand weakly held against his abdomen, the other sort of trying and failing to get at his shoulder.

Roy slapped his hand away and pressed his own against Oliver’s shoulder, the other applying pressure to the wound in Ollie’s gut. The only thing that seemed to register in Roy’s mind in the following moment was, _There’s too much blood._

Ollie seemed to want to say something, his lips parting for a second, but Red Arrow cut him off fervently, “Don’t speak! Just…hold on…” Roy couldn’t think of what to do though, except apply pressure. He’d suddenly forgotten all of his training.

“What took you so long?” Cheshire was speaking from behind, but Roy was only vaguely aware.

“Ran into a man with gills. It ended badly,” a chuckle. “For the gills.”

Red Arrow looked around to see who it had been that had shot Ollie from the shadows, but he’d already figured it was Sportsmaster – he wasn’t wrong. The mercenary had somehow gotten Cheshire freed from her foamy prison, but the assassin was scowling at him. Sportsmaster apparently elected to ignore her.

Cheshire was still holding the arrow she’d caught before, and, when Roy met her eyes she waved it at him, “Souvenir.”

“Let’s go, Little Girl,” Sportsmaster said, impatiently, hoisting his hunting rifle onto his shoulder. “You’re wasting my time.”

She shot him another scowl he didn’t see, already walking back towards the shadows.

“What have you done with Aqualad?!” Red Arrow called after him, and the other man paused for a moment to glance over his shoulder at the archer.

“Nothing a little bed rest can cure,” he chuckled.

Cheshire had retrieved her mask and put it on. She blew Roy a kiss from behind Sportsmaster’s back where he couldn’t see her, and winked at him, “See you around, Hero.”

“Yeah, see you around, Broken Arrow,” Sportsmaster said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Originally posted" is potentially an approximate date, not necessarily definite, for this and all following chapters.


	11. Fearless 2: Part3 ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 15 Dec 2013.

**{sighs}**

**Part Three: Aqualad.**

**Chapter One.**

Since spending as much time as he was with his landlubber friends, Kaldur, much to his own dismay, found he was doing more and more surface dweller things.

Generally when the Atlantean needed to clear his head, he would walk down to the beach by the mountain and dip his toes in the water. Get his feet wet. Wade in the shallows. Dive into the depths.

But for some inexplicable reason, today, he had no desire to even _see_ the ocean – even as his limbs craved the elegant movement of swimming, and the heaviness of surface air was weighing on him so much his insides ached for the lightness of water.

But Kaldur feared his heart would ache more if he were to set his sights upon the vast blueness that was, and would always be, his home.

It was with a deep feeling of sorrow then, that the hero was stretched out on the couch in Mount Justice’s sitting room, his hands resting comfortably on his stomach and his head propped up against the armrest, his long legs leaving his feet almost dangling off the other end of the couch.

Behind him the television was turned on – technically. The “No Signal” sign was printed in large white letters on a blue banner, dark snow buzzing over the rest of the screen. On the other couch sat Superboy, staring blankly at the television.

To his own surprise, Kaldur found the noise didn’t bother him in the slightest.

From where he lay, Kaldur could glimpse M’gann in the kitchen. She was mincing. She hummed as she worked – an unknown melody to Kaldur, making him wonder at the likelihood of it being a Martian tune, or perhaps a surface song Robin had neglected to share with him.

The Boy Wonder had given the Atlantean some tech that could play a multitude of songs at the easy press of a button. Kaldur rather liked it – for a land device; and for land records. Not all of his teammate’s songs necessarily appealed to Kaldur, however, but he’d listened to each one at least once anyway. It was only polite.

Whatever M’gann’s tune was, it was an unexpected complimentary sound to the television’s noise.

A quiet sigh escaped the Atlantean’s lips. He did not wish to look upon the ocean or clear his head swimming amongst the sea-life, because at this point in time it was the very ocean that troubled him.

The fact that it troubled him was bothering the team leader immensely as well, because he knew it should not. He had other things to concern himself with.

Sportsmaster had revealed the presence of a mole amongst his team members – a fact he had hidden from them, while he discreetly begun his own investigation. Whilst they had discovered this, seen it as a betrayal, and had then understood his reasoning, accepting it and soothing his suspicions of one of them being the guilty party, the entire ordeal still gnawed at Kaldur’s gut.

Being team leader, Kaldur was well aware that it had been his responsibility to snuff out a mole had there been one, for the sake of the entire team and their safety…however, as a _friend_ and fellow teammate, he could not help but to think he had somehow failed them by even so much as _entertaining_ the thought that one of them was a traitor.

Kaldur glanced at Superboy – _Conner_. Conner _Kent_. The clone had no idea. Of course, it was not Kaldur’ahm’s place to say.

The Superman clone had been especially upset upon overhearing about the mole. Of course, everyone had, once it really sunk in that Kaldur had been keeping such a secret from them. _Robin_ ended up being the voice of reason – actually _asking_ Kaldur why he had kept the issue of a mole a secret, and _agreeing_ his decision had not been wrong. However, Kaldur still felt lousy about it on occasion.

He was wondering whether the team felt that way as well.

Having Roy join the team recently was not particularly helping the issue, either.

Kaldur was convinced of his team’s innocence – as their friend, he would not betray them by thinking otherwise a second time – never mind Red Tornado turning out to be guiltless, suggesting a potential mole still in their midst. But, his surface friend was not.

Red Arrow slunk around the cave, keeping a suspicious eye on everyone, seemingly unaware of how it grated on some of the team’s nerves.

Just having him in the same room as Artemis had turned into a somewhat nerve-wracking experience for the team – Kaldur, for one, was never certain whether one of them would start flinging arrows at the other. And they never turned their backs on each other either.

It had made Wally antsy as well – more than usual. The redhead seemed to feel divided, between his long-time friend and his female teammate.

Artemis’s actions on their last mission, tracking Cheshire solo, did seem to put Wally in Roy’s corner more than before, but…the speedster didn’t seem happy about it, and it showed.

Kaldur sighed loudly without having meant to, but there it was – earning him a curious look from the clone, but Conner thankfully didn’t ask.

For himself, Kaldur was torn between trying to maintain some form of team unity, and his own personal, distracting feelings. Feelings that could only become more complicated if he were swimming in the sea.

Hence the couch.

Kaldur had thought he’d settled the issue of Atlantis when he came back after his first visit home since joining the team. While it had felt that way for a good long while, the Atlantean needed the ocean, needed _home_ , and could not stay away for too long.

Returning was inevitable, but he had not been prepared for how much it stung each time.

It got to the point he’d been ignoring the ocean recently, the call back to the sea and its great depths. He had not been home in months. Now, he was afraid his mind would start to dwell on Atlantis and what – _who_ – dwelled there, and he would be liable on another mission – as he had been with Clayface.

But, going back, only the thought, and seeing—

It was too much for the Atlantean to bear.

But…staying away, was becoming as heavy a weight.

Kaldur let out another sigh, feeling deflated.

“What?” Conner said this time, startling Kaldur. He looked over at the clone.

“N-Nothing. I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb.”

Superboy frowned at him, clearly not believing, but shrugged and let the issue drop.

_Recognized: Aquaman 06_

Kaldur’s eyebrows rose, his interest piqued at the arrival of his mentor. It was not often King Orin made a visit to the cave.

Kaldur’ahm got to his feet, thus, and took to the zeta tubes at a brisk pace.

Approaching the – for lack of a better term – cave’s foyer, Kaldur heard a chorus of distressed voices, and at once quickened his pace.

“Aquaman!”

“What happened to him?”

“Somebody fetch Kal!”

“Help me get him up—”

“I am here!” Kaldur called, rushing toward the zeta-tubes.

Artemis, her hair somewhat dishevelled and a sheen of sweat resting on her brow, stood off to the side, watching as Roy and Wally each grabbed Aquaman by an arm, trying to help him to his feet.

She looked around as Kaldur approached, and stood back so he could see his mentor properly.

“My King!” Aqualad exclaimed, falling to his knees in front of the older man, who was still on the floor despite Wally and Roy’s efforts at getting him up.

“Aqua…lad,” King Orin mumbled, voice hoarse, as he unhooked his arm from behind Wally’s head to grasp Kaldur’s shoulder instead.

“You are bleeding,” Kaldur noticed, and at once Wally’s free hand went to the king’s side, pressing against his wound.

“I’m calling Batman,” Robin said from somewhere to Kaldur’s right. He hadn’t even noticed the boy was there.

M’gann and Superboy’s voices floated into the room, laced thick with concern, but Aqualad wasn’t hearing them.

His king was speaking again, “Atlantis…under…attack…” his eyes bore into Kaldur’s, a desperate urgency within them. “You must save…the queen…”

King Orin’s hand went unexpectedly slack against Kaldur’s shoulder, and the young man caught it with both hands before it could fall to the floor, staring wide-eyed at his king while the man’s eyes slid shut, head dropping forward.

“Dude…” Wally breathed, after a second’s silence. “Kal, I’m…sorry…”

But Kaldur wasn’t hearing that either. Unfamiliar tears had sprung to the back of his eyes, a deeper sting had pierced his heart, and all thought seemed to have left him.

Aqualad could only stare in agonizing disbelief – his king was dead.


	12. Fearless 3: Part4 ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 19 Dec 2013.

**{deceived}**

**Part Four: Artemis.**

**Chapter One.**

“‘Just a simple recon mission…’ ‘We’ll be in and out before they know it.’ ‘You worry too much; this is going to be a piece of cake!’ ‘It’s deserted, what could possibly happen?’ _What_ -could- _possibly_ - _happen??_ ”

Artemis rolled her eyes, having listened to enough of his mumbling next to her ear, “Something you’d like to _say_ , Kid Annoyance?” she cut in, snapping through her grit teeth.

“Ow!” Wally exclaimed suddenly, tightening his grip round her neck as he hopped uncomfortably beside her, trying to regain his balance. “Ow-wow-wow—”

Artemis stopped walking, and scowled at him, tempted to pinch him really hard in the side.

This close in the dark, he could probably make out her expression as well as she could his.

“What? My foot hit a rock!” he scowled back. “I can’t see a _thing_ in this darkness!”

Absently he ran a hand across his forehead, through his hair. The speedster’s mask was cut above his eyes, just barely holding together to conceal his identity. His goggles had probably broken when they’d been ripped from his mask, and were missing now besides. They were lost to the night and woods.

“And also, _yes_ ,” he snapped, answering her sarcastic, somewhat rhetorical question. “This is _your_ fault!”

“ _My_ fault?” indignation was thick in her voice, and while she did feel somewhat offended, snapping back at Wally was more a reflexive thing nowadays than anything else. ”I was _perfectly_ happy watching the perimeter. It was _you_ who had to run off—”

“No, no – don’t give me that,” Wally interrupted. “Nobody said you had to follow me—”

“I thought we were _supposed_ to watch each other’s backs! How was I supposed to do that if I wasn’t there?”

“I could’ve handled myself and been back in a—”

“ _Don’t_ say—”

“Flash!”

“Argh!” Artemis rolled her eyes at him, frustrated.

“Besides, if you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have had to save you—”

“ _Save_ me?!” Artemis barked – like she was some helpless civilian who _needed_ saving? Pu- _lease_! “I didn’t need your help, I was perfectly _fine_!”

“You were perfectly being _shot at_ ,” Wally retorted, and then waved one hand at her, looking away with his nose in the air. “Whatever, babe. All the same, it’s still _your_ fault I’m stuck with this broken ankle.”

But Artemis had hardly heard that last. She’d blinked at what he’d called her, grit her teeth, and tried digging her nails through his suit into his side. He didn’t seem to notice, though, so the tactic wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped.

Scowling, she pulled him close with a violent tug of her arm, making Wally’s head whip round so fast he’d probably used super-speed. Wide-eyed he stared at her, as Artemis jabbed his chest with her forefinger.

“I am _not_. Your. _Babe_ ,” she said dangerously, narrowing her eyes at him.

Wally only stared, apparently speechless, for a full three seconds, gaping at her. Finally he said, sounding almost sincere, “I’m sorry,” and then, decidedly _less_ sincere, “I did _not_ mean to call you that.” He swallowed when she continued to scowl at him though, and then added, “Why don’t we just get back to the Bioship—”

“Shut up,” Artemis snapped, having been ignoring half of that anyway. Instead, her senses were alerted to something else – footsteps? She wasn’t sure.

“What?” Kid Can’t-be-quiet was still speaking, though – of course – and sounding offended. “I was just suggesting we—”

“ _Quiet!_ ” Artemis hissed, slapping her free hand across his mouth. At once Wally grabbed at her wrist with his free hand, his arm around her neck stiffening, but Artemis ignored him, “I thought I heard something,” she whispered loudly, eyes searching the darkened forest around them for any sign of movement.

There were none.

Even the noise she’d been so certain of was non-existent. Everything was quiet.

If it wasn’t such a reassuring sign – that they weren’t being followed, or hunted, or ambushed, or moments from a wild animal attack that could rip them to shreds or devour them whole – it would have been eerie.

“Okay…” she said at last, having let the silence drag on until she was perfectly sure there was nothing. Wally had relaxed next to her, his arm slack around her neck, his fingers lightly touching her bare arm. “Apparently not,” she pulled back her hand and Wally let go of her wrist, too.

“Can we go now?” he asked, a little impatiently. “I’m tired of standing still.”

She frowned at him, mumbled, “Yeah, you would be… Let’s just go, then.”

Holding onto his wrist, her right arm still about his waist, Artemis helped take some of the weight off Wally’s allegedly broken ankle, as they continued their trudge through the dark.

“Good,” he was saying, “I’m _dying_ over here…”

Artemis rolled her eyes, “I hardly think it’s _broken_ ,” she said. “You probably just twisted it.”

“Not _that_ ,” he said, annoyed. “We are moving _so slow_ ,” he stretched the word. “It’s killing me.”

Artemis resisted the urge to roll her eyes one more time, or to snap back with some snarky comment about his super-speed, and kept her peace instead. She figured she’d reached her quota for arguing with the speedster for today.

It was good she had, or she would have missed the very _distinct_ sound of snapping branches, shifting leaves that were clearly more than a rustle, and the resounding _fwip_ of something being thrown through the air.

“Get down!” she exclaimed, practically diving Wally to the ground as she hit the deck herself, faces first.

The speedster went down with a yelp, followed by a painful groan – probably on account of his ankle.

“Yeah, I’m down,” he was muttering, as Artemis shrugged off his arm and got to her feet.

Ahead of them, embedded into a tree, a silver sai glinted in a sliver of moonlight.

Artemis extracted her bow at once, pulling an arrow from her quiver and nocking it. On the ground by her feet, Wally had pushed himself up on his elbows and had noticed the sai, too. “Oh, boy…”

“Stay down…” Artemis said quietly, scanning the area with her eyes narrowed, trying to glimpse _anything_ through the dark. She turned, slowly, trying not to make a sound with her shifting feet, but Cheshire probably had night vision or something. She already knew where they were; was watching them…

They were at a clear disadvantage.

Another deliberate rustle of leaves, like their stalker _wanted_ them to find her – probably she did, though – and Artemis aimed at the trees to her left, caught sight of Cheshire in the moonlight, and loosed her arrow.

It missed the assassin, but hit a tree and exploded all the same; only, Cheshire was far enough away already not to be affected.

She’d dived out of the trees, rolling to her feet as she loosed a pair of sais at them – Wally was on the receiving end of those, and, moving fast, the speedster rolled a little closer to Artemis’s feet to dodge them.

Stepping swiftly over Wally even as he was moving to miss the sais, another arrow already nocked, Artemis raised her bow at the older woman’s chest.

“What are you doing here?” Artemis demanded, Cheshire having come to a standstill at the threat of Artemis’s arrow. The assassin even had her hands raised as if in surrender; although Artemis thought the gesture was really just mocking her.

“Looking for you, of course,” Cheshire answered easily. “Really, I come in peace.”

Behind her, Artemis could hear Wally shifting, coming gingerly to his feet – or, the one he could stand on, anyway.

“I just wasn’t expecting your little friend over there,” Cheshire was still speaking, and, unable to resist the urge, Artemis had to give Wally a quick glance over her shoulder. Wally had his eyes on Cheshire at least, he’d have seen if she’d done something in Artemis’s brief second of inattention.

“We’re hardly friends,” Artemis drawled, facing the masked assassin with a frown. “Still. Wasn’t trying to kill him a bit much?”

“But Artemis,” Cheshire said, sounding every bit like she was grinning. “How are we supposed to talk family business with so many ears listening?”

Artemis flinched, her fingers twitching against the taut bowstring, threatening to let go.

“‘Family business?’” Wally repeated, sounding puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She hasn’t told you,” Cheshire said, before Artemis could think up a lie. “Of course not. Too ashamed, aren’t you?”

Artemis ground her teeth, so tempted to loose the arrow. Of course, it wouldn’t _kill_ Cheshire, she couldn’t do that. But it would potentially shut the girl up for a good long while. Long enough for them to limp away, and her to still salvage the situation.

“Or, too afraid?” Cheshire was still speaking, in that sly way she had, just playing mind games. “I’m sorry, but your cover was already blown the moment you decided to let the boy live.”

“Tch,” Artemis’s grip tightened on her bow, her fingers pulling the string a fraction tighter.

“Sis.”

“Argh!” the green fletched arrow slid free from her bow, but Cheshire had seen it coming and was prepared, diving out of the way at once.

“ _Sis?_ ” Artemis was hardly aware of Wally’s surprised gasp behind her.

She was nocking another arrow, taking aim and firing at Cheshire without even thinking. Just moving, reacting, that’s all she was doing.

What the _hell_ was the matter with Jade? Obviously, she didn’t like her sister being on the opposite side of the Force, but that was a bridge they’d already crossed. Artemis had never been planning on revealing Cheshire’s identity to the Team, or even the League, and not _just_ because of the family ties. She’d rather expected her sister to pay her the same kind of courtesy, on principle, despite the many times she’d threatened half-heartily to spill Artemis’s secret.

Up until just then, Jade had been acting like she didn’t know Artemis just as Artemis had pretended not to know her. Why the change? _Why_ was Jade revealing her secrets?!

Tears had sprung uninvited to the archer’s eyes, but she tried blinking them away fast, pulling out another arrow after another, and firing at the assassin.

Behind her, Wally had tried once to intervene, but Artemis had shaken him off and shoved him away. The speedster had tripped, stepping sideways on his already hurt ankle and had fallen on his butt. He hadn’t gotten up again, but he hadn’t shut up either, trying and failing to calm her. He wasn’t any good at talking people down.

Or maybe she just wasn’t listening.

Cheshire was swift, but always kept within sight and range of Artemis and her arrows. The archer barely had to move, and Cheshire wasn’t slinging sais and shurikens through the air at her either.

Only vaguely did the oddity of this register in Artemis’s befuddled mind. She was too angry, too hurt, too… _afraid_ to think straight. What was Wally thinking? Cheshire – her _sister_? She had family ties in the bad guy clan, blood was thicker than water, all that. She’d botched up their last mission kind of badly, tracking Cheshire on her own… Was he thinking it was because she’d planned on betraying them somehow?

No…he had to know she wouldn’t do that.

Artemis reached over her shoulder for another arrow, only to find she was out.

“There,” Cheshire said, satisfied. “Now we can talk.”

Artemis pulled out her crossbow and aimed, only to flinch back, startled, when it was fired to bits out of her grip.

“Baby Girl. You’re wasting our time.”

Sportsmaster.

Artemis watched him emerge from the trees, gun resting on his shoulder. She was vaguely aware of Wally’s incredulous mutter of “ _Baby Girl?_ ”

“You have intel for us, Baby Girl. So, start talking.”

_What?_

“I’m not telling you a thing. There’s nothing to say, anyway,” Artemis retorted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, feeling vulnerable without her arrows.

“Must we go through this every time, Little Girl?”

It took Artemis half a second to realize he was addressing Jade, but by the time she’d made to turn back around and face Cheshire, it was already too late.

A sharp, stinging pain pierced her neck, and, frantic, she reached for the spot even as her knees buckled under her and she fell to the ground.

Her fingers grabbed hold of a dart that had penetrated her skin, and ripped it out painfully.

“Artemis!” Wally’s voice somewhere behind her.

Artemis dropped the dart, bent over, feeling nauseous and light-headed. Her mind felt strange, clouded somehow… And her tongue, felt heavy suddenly. How strange. Stranger, _worse_ , she suddenly felt quite compelled to start speaking.

“Well, go on,” Cheshire kneeled in front of her, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. “Tell me all your secrets.”

Artemis lifted her heavy head and complied, whispering into Cheshire’s ear without meaning to, but without being able to stop.

More tears crowded the corners of her eyes, as she realized what she was doing – _betraying_ her Team.

“Artemis…” Wally breathed, his voice sounding strangled to Artemis’s ears. But then, even her voice sounded unlike her own. How were they controlling her like this? What had they done to her? Why couldn’t she stop?!

Try as she might to stop her lips from moving, stop the words from leaving her mouth; they only kept coming – faster, and faster. Mentally she was screaming at herself, _Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_

And then Wally spoke again – or maybe he’d barely paused after saying her name, Artemis didn’t know – and the weight of his words slammed into her like she’d been rushed into a brick wall.

“You’re the mole.”

Artemis froze – stopped speaking, nearly stopped breathing, stopped seeing…too many tears suddenly clouding her vision. She blinked, and they fell.

“Well…I guess that’s all,” Cheshire said, coming to her feet. “For now.”

“Then let’s go, Little Girl,” Sportsmaster said, and Artemis heard Cheshire walking away.

Wally was saying something, but Artemis had stopped hearing, too.

She was the mole. She was the _mole_. Red Arrow had been right.

Wally’s choked cry cut through the haze, and Artemis sprang to her feet and swung round to face her family, hand reaching for an arrow that wasn’t there.

Cheshire had struck Wally’s shoulder with her foot and pinned him to the ground, but she looked up at Artemis and stepped back, “Just asking him nicely not to follow us. You too, sis.” And then she ran, back toward the trees.

Artemis sprinted after her, ignoring Wally’s call as she passed him. She could hardly look at him anyway.

 _Oh, Wally…I’m_ so _sorry…_

Cutting through the trees, she came into a moonlit clearing, Cheshire and Sportsmaster ahead, boarding a helicopter.

_No, no, no-no-no—_

They were getting away. They were going to get away with her Team’s secrets. Plans, mission information, the Team’s freakin’ favourite colours – she didn’t _know!_

She had _no_ idea what she’d been whispering in Cheshire’s ear. It was like she couldn’t hear her own voice, and didn’t understand her own language. And when Wally had snapped her out of it, it was all gone like ashes in the wind. She didn’t know. And she couldn’t let them get away with it.

Artemis raised her bow, only to realize she hadn’t bothered to grab an arrow. _Why_ hadn’t she grabbed an arrow?!

“When your little friends abandon you, Artemis,” Cheshire called above the noise of the now rising helicopter. “Your family will still be here for you.”

Artemis stood, feeling numb and betrayed, and confused, and…so afraid. Wally—

She turned around, and froze, finding him there by a tree, staring daggers at her.

“You’re the mole,” he accused again, voice fierce and thick with anger. Or, hatred?

“Wally—” she hated the way her voice shook saying his name.

“ _Baby Girl_ ,” Wally interrupted, strangling whatever else she was about to say with his tone. “What is he – an uncle? Your _father_?”

She glanced away, not having meant to, but she couldn’t face his eyes.

It was all the confirmation Wally needed.

“He is. And Cheshire’s your sister. And you never bothered to _tell us!_ Because you were their little inside girl. Red Arrow was right—”

“No!” Artemis snapped, because snapping at Wally came so easily. Besides, he had it wrong, and she _had_ to make him see that. “Didn’t you see? They – _drugged_ me!” she said, clapping a hand over the back of her neck. “I had no control over that!”

She was looking at him again, but his expression had hardly changed.

“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped back. “You _lied_ to us, Artemis! To…to the whole Team! We trusted you, and you betrayed us when you didn’t tell us who your family is – if you had, we would have never let you fight them! They never would have used you!”

Artemis opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. Kid Moron might actually have a point.

Wally scowled at her some more before turning around, trying his best at a profound exit even as he was hopping and limping along.

It was painful watching him hurt like that. In more ways than one.

Artemis found herself beside him without recalling having moved, “Wally,” she whispered, disregarding the unbidden tears spilling freely from her eyes, the crack in her voice and her sore throat. “I’m _sorry_ …so sorry…”

Despite how pathetic she probably looked, Wally’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his green eyes looked down on her even harder, angrier. “It’s too late, Artemis,” he said, quietly, which was scarier than if he had been shouting. “I’m handing you over to the League,” he grabbed her arm, held on tight like that would stop her from making a run for it. Dared she do that even? “And then Batman can do with you whatever he wants.”

Run for it? With his wounded ankle Wally would never catch her. And then what? Where would she go? Not home – the League could find her there.

Or, should she stay? Face Batman now rather than later. What’s the worse they could do to her? What had she been so afraid of all this time?

That the Team wouldn’t want her? Wouldn’t want to work with someone who had family ties to criminals. Who could betray them at any time. Who just had.

_“Wally? Artemis?”_

M’gann suddenly spoke in her mind, making her flinch.

Wally tightened his grip on her arm, and she heard him in her mind too when he spoke to M’gann. “ _I’m here_ ,” his eyes held her gaze fiercely, and Artemis couldn’t look away, couldn’t move even as she contemplated escape. “ _And I have the mole._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artemis's story was my favourite one, I think, other than Wally's.


	13. Fearless 4: Part5 ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orignally posted 30 Dec 2013.

**{rats}**

**Part Five: Kid Flash.**

**Chapter One.**

Wally West was having a significantly bad day. In fact, he’d been having a significantly bad _week_.

He’d been on lousy missions with the team that always ended with him getting them noticed, almost caught, nearly killed, partially maimed, near-lethally poisoned, tripped, trapped, tied up, sun-burnt – _what the hell?_ – and an assortment of other crazy, improbable mishaps that were all, by some vengeful ill-fated circumstance or another, _his_ fault.

It had gotten so bad Batman had been contemplating the possibility Kid Flash might be under some kind of – Wally had visibly scoffed and rolled his eyes, but mentally gulped dreadfully at the suggestion – _magical curse_.

With Zatara – or, rather, Doctor Fate – busy with his own mystical troubles, and Zatanna needed for the latest mission, however, a full Wally-scan would have to wait.

Thus the Flash’s partner had been confined to his house in Central City, bored out of his wits all day, feeling guilty and rotten to his toes, and, worst of all, _empty_ in his stomach.

And it wasn’t getting _any_ better.

Tossing and turning in his sheets until he very much resembled a mummy – the _dying-of-hunger-over-here_ -kind – Wally eventually had a wrestling match with his covers until they finally let him go, and half sped his way to the kitchen. _Half_ , because barely ten paces into super-speed he nearly collapse with exhaustion.

By the time he reached the kitchen he was crawling across the linoleum on all fours, feeling like a desert-dweller on his way to the brilliant mirage that was the fridge before him.

At least when he got to it, though, it didn’t disappear. Hopeful, his stomach a bundle of giddy happiness at the prospect of getting something – _anything_ ; some leftover tuna casserole, pasta, the green salad even, one of those tiny tubs of yoghurt, his dad’s last piece of chocolate and the consequences be damned, dammit! – to eat, Wally reached for the fridge’s door with a goofy grin on his face and swung it open eagerly.

His face fell.

“Wha…?” he blinked. Again, just to be sure he hadn’t seen wrong, but that didn’t work, because he was still seeing wrong, so he took to pinching his arm. Once. Twice. His leg? No. Cheeks? That was just awkward. Finally, Wally grabbed hold of the fridge and its door, shaking the latter this way and that, open and closed, as he cried, “What. Is. Going. On. Here?!”

The fridge was _empty_. Like his insides.

Empty of anything grab-and-eat-able, anyway. A few eggs were nestled in their tray, the slightest sound of milk jostling in its container could be heard as Wally swung the door, and a tub of butter sat in the corner – just mocking him across the vast expanse of nothingness surrounding its golden buttery goodness contained in a green container, neither of which was edible _just like that_.

Where had all the food gone? Where? _Where?_

“Where has all the food gone?” he yelped in a small voice, not even having the strength to cringe at how much like a _girl_ that had sounded.

…Not that sounding like a girl was necessarily a _bad_ thing. Unless, you know, you were a boy. Which he _was_. And also, not that _every girl_ , and all girls in general, sounded girly, and yelped in ways that should not be yelped in – Artemis, for example, was _not_ a yelper. Or a girly girl, either, which is something he rather liked about…but, that was neither here nor there!

The important thing was his desperate craving for something to eat, and his grave lack thereof – the “something to eat” bit, not the craving, because of _that_ there was plenty.

“This is like…my worst nightmare _ever_ …nothing…to eat…”

 _Bread_. It suddenly dawned on him. Bread wasn’t kept in the fridge! And butter – you put the butter on the bread.

Wally clung to the fridge’s door for support as he pushed himself laboriously to his feet – only to freeze when the light came on.

He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the bright light.

Across the room, in the doorway, stood his mom.

“Wally?” she squinted at him, her tone none too friendly. “Are you raiding the fridge again?”

She was clutching her fluffy light pink dressing gown closed with one hand in front of her, her other hand still on the light switch next to the door. Comfy light blue slippers peaked out from underneath the gown and for the smallest fraction of a millisecond they gave Wally pause – hadn’t she thrown those out?

After the rat chewed holes in one, didn’t she throw them out? _Ugh, the rat._ That had been a scary experience.

It had been a big, hairy thing, with sharp, nibbling teeth that had gotten hold of Wally’s forefinger and just gnawed away, after Mom had discovered it in her slippers and cried in surprise, sending Wally running to her aid in distress. But that had been _months_ ago, and of course she threw the useless pair of footwear away afterward. She wore pink ones nowadays.

Didn’t she…?

”And do you know what time it is?”

Wally had processed the oddity in less time it had taken his mother to voice her second sentence, so she had his full attention when she started speaking again. He pouted in reply.

“I’m _hungry_ …” he moaned, putting as much emphasis and desperate emotion in the second word as he possibly could.

“Did you forget you ate us out of house and home for dinner tonight?” she _tsk_ -ed, and walked towards him.

“I…probably did that, yeah,” Wally mumbled, but honestly, he couldn’t even remember what dinner had been. “But I’m still hungry…” his mom rested her hand on his shoulder and Wally felt increasingly grateful for her presence. Bad that he’d woken her up, of course, but Wally felt like he was being eaten from the inside by his stomach, because it just _needed food_ , and he was in no position to make it himself. Cue loving, caring mother.

“Sit down, Wally,” his mother said fondly. “I’ll make you something.”

_Good ole Mom…_

Wally smiled gratefully, and his mother stepped aside so he could reach the table, but Wally had barely left the support of the fridge’s door and taken a couple steps, when his legs gave way beneath him.

“Wally!” his mother was beside him in seconds, but Wally had already reached for the table and was trying to pull himself up by its closest leg.

She gave him a hand even as he protested, “I’m fine, Mom…fine, fine…”

She muttered a stern “Shush,” and ushered him into a chair.

Wally was still muttering despite the admonition, “Just… _really_ tired. And… _so hungry_ …”

Wally ended up with his head resting on his crossed arms on the table, half-lidded eyes watching as his mother fried several eggs and some bacon.

“ _So_ hungry…” he started mumbling, without really meaning to, but he wasn’t thinking really. “So much more…than usual…I feel…emptier than empty…”

“Here,” his mother said, and passed a butter-covered slice of bread his way.

He devoured it eagerly.

 _Why am I_ so _hungry? Never been this hungry before…_

Half a bread loaf and a quarter tub of butter, a now-empty container of peanut butter and six apples later, Wally felt moderately better. At least not like his stomach was chewing at his insides to fill up anymore.

He was still tired, though.

The kettle-shaped clock on the wall had _tick-ticked_ passed three sometime during the last fifteen minutes. Wally couldn’t remember how long he’d been lying awake before he’d finally gotten out of bed for a snack.

He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t gotten up at the first sign of hunger in the first place, either. It all just felt like a bad dream. Maybe he’d been having one even in his hungry state, and he’d only woken up when his body couldn’t take it anymore and needed food.

Finally his mother set a plate of eggs and bacon strips down in front of him – enough to fill up _every inch_ of the plate.

She went to work on a handful of spaghetti, breaking it into a pot of boiling water with a crunch as Wally dug into his food.

“Mom,” he said, through chews, completely disregarding manners. “You are – like, the best mom – _ever_.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Wally,” was the reply, but his mother spoke fondly, and smiled at him over her shoulder.

Wally grinned back at her.

With his stomach feeling better within the hour, and the sink stacked up with bowls and plates and cutlery, Wally’s mind was a little freer to wander in a direction that was _not_ food. Well, not exactly.

“Mom,” he chewed and swallowed before speaking again, as his mother settled into a chair opposite him. “What happened to all the food?”

He could have sworn the fridge had been packed – with leftovers, with salads, with the really bad Halloween candy that was already a month old, and he knew he had to get rid of it, but… Well, part of him had been wondering what kind of prank he could pull with the candy – shrug – and the other half thought: _midnight snack!_ But…so much for that.

“ _You_ happened to the food, Wally,” his mother said pointedly. “But, it’s alright. I need to buy groceries tomorrow, anyway.”

Wally nodded, slurping up more pasta. Then a cheeky grin tugged at his lips, “I’m not the only one who had more than his fill, though. As I recall, Uncle Barry shoved a _few_ plates in his mouth, too,” he chuckled a little at the memory.

That’s what dinner had been – his Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris had come over, and Flash and his partner ended up having an eating contest.

Uncle Barry didn’t have Wally’s quick metabolism, but he was a faster eater when he wanted to be. To keep the contest fair, they’d played with a timer of course. Wally was fuzzy on who’d won though.

When Wally looked up from two more mouthfuls of pasta, his mom was giving him an odd look.

“What?”

“The hunger must be getting to you, Wally,” she said, frowning. “Uncle Barry hasn’t been over in a couple of weeks.”

“What?” he blinked, letting his fork drop limply into his bowl. He could’ve sworn… “ _Really?_ He wasn’t over last night, with Aunt Iris—”

His mom was shaking her head. “You said your uncle was with the team, filling in for you on a mission.”

He did?

“I did?”

She nodded, and her frown turned into a small smile as she got to her feet. “The hunger was probably getting to you, Wally,” she said kindly, and took his empty bowl off the table to place in the sink. She made for the door, ruffling his hair fondly as she passed him. “Go to bed, Wally.”

He nodded absently, trying to remember when he’d said Uncle Barry was filling in for him.

Something else came to mind, though, “Mom – I thought you threw out the blue slippers?”

“I did, Wally,” she replied, not pausing in her step, and Wally looked up, perplexed, to look at her slippers. They were pink. “ _Goodnight_ , Wally,” she said, as she disappeared out the door.

Wally stared, eyebrows furrowed. But then he got to his feet, sped to the light switch to turn it off, and then rushed to his room, eager to get back to sleeping.

He shouldn’t have been, for the rest of the night was spent in agonizing turmoil. Nightmares plagued his sleeping mind so fiercely vivid, that by the time he woke up, he was finding it hard to believe they weren’t real.

Every possible scenario of the team being in some kind of fatal trouble ran through Wally’s mind – Superboy stabbed with a magic sword, Aqualad and M’gann suffocated in a fire, Robin falling to his death, Artemis shot, Zatanna strangled, Roy mundanely hit by a car, and a million more. At the end of each terrifying dream, he’d end up guilty and alone – the helpless sidekick who couldn’t save any of his friends.

And then it would start all over again.

Until finally a massive explosion ripped his seven friends to shreds as Wally stood safe from the blast, watching in wide-eyed horror.

As if in slow motion he saw the force of the blast send his teammates flying back. The earth shook and buildings collapsed, debris from the bomb and immediate area hurtling through the air – hitting his team.

It happened fast and slowly at the same time, and even though Wally was miles away, he could see everything happening clearly. The expression on Rob’s face the instant the explosion went off, Conner’s distressed cry as he reached for M’gann, who was too far away and already burning as a wave of fire engulfed the scene. Zatanna and Artemis clung to each other in fear, Kaldur and Roy in front of them in a half-hearted attempt at somehow saving them, but it was for nought.

And then all Wally saw was the light of the fire, burning bright beyond his closed eyelids though he couldn’t remember having shut them.

Head throbbing painfully, his limbs feeling numb and heavy, brow drenched in sweat, Wally forced open his eyes after what seemed like an endless half-awake struggle against staying asleep and having another nightmare.

He was clinging to his sheets a moment longer after opening his eyes and squinting at the harsh rays of sunlight shining through his open window.

Then he bolted upright, half fell out of bed and sped around the room in search of his phone, flopping back onto the bed the moment he’d found it. Instinctively he dialled the familiar number, desperate to make sure it _had_ only been dreams.

“Grayson,” greeted the voice on the other end of the line, sounding as cheery as ever and Wally’s heart skipped an almost completely relieved beat.

“Dude, are you alive? Tell me you’re alive – are you breathing? Check your pulse—”

“Er…h-hold on,” the kid sounded a little distressed, and then his voice was a little farther away as Wally heard him speaking to someone else, “It’s just Barb, Bruce – freaking over some test. No big, but I got to take this…” some few muffled noises later, Wally flinched as his friend’s voice snapped into his ear, “Dude! What are you doing calling Dick instead of Robin? Are you insane?”

Wally flushed, realising his mistake. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized quickly, raising a defensive hand like Robin could see, “My bad. It was the first number that came to mind.”

“‘Came to mind’?” Robin repeated. “Never heard of speed-dial?”

Wally could practically _hear_ the eye-roll.

“Dude, I’m faster than speed-dial,” he grinned. “Besides, what’s with you not checking caller ID?” he quipped right back, and Robin groaned at the other end of the line.

“Bruce was in the middle of a monologue, I was just welcoming the interruption without question—” he sort of cut himself off into an abrupt silence just as he’d come to the end of the sentence, and Wally, having chuckled at his response, took a second before he noticed. Robin’s voice was quieter when he spoke again, “Er, Wally…why the call?”

“Oh, dude…” he said, feeling stupid. “It’s nothing, really, I just… dreamtyouandeveryoneelseIknowgotblowntosmithereensanditfreakedmeout.” He finished in an embarrassed rush, scratching at the back of his head.

“Er…”

“No big,” Wally said quickly. “Obviously, you’re all fine. You _are_ all fine, yeah?”

The briefest moment of silence on Dick’s end almost had Wally’s heart racing before his friend said easily, “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Great,” he grinned. “I’ll see you later at the cave. Bye!”

“Er, Wally, maybe you should stay ho—” but Wally had already snapped his phone shut.

He froze for a second, feeling rude for not having realized Dick was still talking, and then puzzled at what his best friend had been trying to suggest – that he stay home? What for? – and then he shrugged it off at a growl from his stomach, and sped downstairs for breakfast instead.

Generous helpings of waffles, pancakes, more eggs Mom had conjured up from _somewhere_ , and bread, too, filled the dining table and Wally eagerly dug in.

The rest of his morning was almost literally a blur, until the cave’s computer announced his arrival, and the world seemed to slow down again as he stepped through the zeta-tube.

With no one immediately in sight, Wally sped to the kitchen, where he found most of his teammates – Superboy sat in front of a static-covered television screen in the living room, Artemis by the island in the kitchen in front of Robin, who stood on the other side of the counter and was speaking to the blonde in a low voice.

“Hey, dudes!” Wally called as he rushed passed his best friend to get to the fridge. “Any snacks in here?” he snatched a granola bar from the door and popped it open, stuffing almost half into his mouth and chewing through a grin as Robin and Artemis watched.

But something was wrong with his teammate’s expressions. Artemis wasn’t scowling at him in disgust, for one thing, and Robin looked…sort of apprehensive.

Wally swallowed, “What’s with suggesting I stay home, Rob?” he asked lightly, attempting to lift the atmosphere of a sudden weighty awkwardness. “Were you planning a big surprise?” he looked around. “And…where is everyone else?”

“Zatanna and M’gann are in their rooms…” Artemis replied, sounding uncharacteristically subdued. Her eyes on the mug before her, she shook her head slightly, “And, sorry…I don’t want to be here, either,” she was out of her seat and marching from the room before Wally could do as much as blink.

“What was that?” Wally looked to Robin for an explanation, frowning. “Do I smell or something?”

Robin shook his head morosely, “Erm…never mind Artemis. Or anyone else either,” he waved a hand, sparing Supey by the couch a quick glance. The clone was looking pretty entranced by the T.V. “Batman and Black Canary want to talk to you.”

“Is this about the curse thing? Because I’m telling you, I am not—”

“No, Wally,” Robin interrupted, almost scowling at his friend. Then he looked apologetic again, “Would you just, _please_ , go? They’re in BC’s counselling room…”

“Am I in need of therapy?” Wally joked, and Robin rolled his eyes at him, but even as he did, the sullen expression still hadn’t left his friend’s face. “Dude, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on exactly? Did you guys not want me here today and now you’re trying to get rid of me?” he frowned at the shorter boy.

“That’s not it at all,” Robin replied. “I just thought you’d rather want to be home when they talk to you,” the Boy Wonder explained. “But, since you’re here…I guess there’s nothing for it, now.”

“Why don’t _you_ just tell me what’s going on?” Wally implored again, thinking he’d rather hear whatever it was from his best friend than the shrink and the scary bat – no offense to either.

“I…It’s not my place to say,” Robin said, his voice sounding suddenly tight, and his eyes not meeting Wally’s. He was pointedly looking away, his fists clenched. “I-I don’t _want_ to say it anyway.”

Brows furrowed, Wally stared at his best friend, uncomprehending.

“Dude…”

“Just talk to Bats, okay?” Robin snapped, looking up at his friend, his voice almost cracking. “ _Please?_ ”

Wally blinked, feeling thoroughly confused and more than a little worried. What the _heck_ was going on?

Then he sped off towards Bats and BC, finding them right where Robin had said they were, of course. What happened next was even more of a blur afterward than what breakfast had been, and then Wally was on the road in some foreign state, just _running_.

Tears streaked down his cheeks even as his mind was telling him it was silly to cry. It wasn’t true, after all. It just _wasn’t true_. It couldn’t be.

“Sit down, Wally,” Black Canary had spoken to him kindly, of course, but Wally had declined the suggestion.

“Why am I here?”

Batman stepped forward as he spoke, “As you know, in your absence last night, your Uncle Barry agreed to help out the team on their assigned mission.”

“Yeah, about that,” Wally had cut in with a contemplative frown. “Did he _really_? Because I distinctly remember him being over for dinner. And I wouldn’t forget that – there was pie—”

“Wally,” Black Canary had said again, putting a stern hand on Wally’s shoulder and guiding him to an armchair. “ _Sit down_.”

He’d sort of met her half way and plopped down onto the arm of said chair, and with a reluctant sigh, she’d taken it, stepping back again for Batman to continue.

Wally couldn’t remember a single word of Batman’s report of the mission. It wasn’t a very detailed one anyway; of course, the mission itself wasn’t what mattered or what the point of the conversation was about. This was about breaking news – _bad_ news, to a sixteen year old kid.

The only words that stuck in Wally’s mind thus, were, “I’m sorry, Wally…” and by the Helmet of Fate he really _did_ sound sorry. “Your Uncle Barry is dead.”

And Wally ran.

 

* * *

 

Not quite remembering how he’d gotten there, Wally found himself in one of the empty spare rooms in Mount Justice hours later after he’d sped across the country almost three times.

It was dark in the room. He hadn’t bothered with the light. What did it matter anyway?

He sat on the edge of the bed, back bent forward, his arms hanging limply between his legs, thumbs twiddling, as he stared at the dark wall ahead.

He should go home. See Aunt Iris. She must have heard by now, too.

Absently, Wally shook his head. It wasn’t _possible_. It just couldn’t be, because Uncle Barry hadn’t been on a mission last night. And yet, even as he thoroughly clung to that belief, he was just as convinced his uncle _had_ gone on a mission in his stead, as well.

He recalled, strangely, mumbling about Uncle Barry cancelling dinner plans because of said mission through his mouthful of pie when his mom had asked _last night_. And at the same time Uncle Barry was sitting next to him around their dinner table, laughing with blueberry in his teeth.

Wally wracked his brain, trying to think of _some logical explanation_ for this bizarreness.

Were there two realities? Had he been in both, but was now stuck in the one where one of his greatest fears had become a reality?

His uncle was _dead_.

His feet were sore. He was sweaty and probably stunk like old gym socks, and _dammit_ , he was _still hungry_.

So many nightmares – first no food, then those crazy dreams, not to mention everything else that had gone wrong this past week; heck, even his mom’s freaky slipper situation was scary!

And to top it all off…Uncle Barry.

A knock sounded from the other side of the door, and Wally looked up miserably as it opened to admit his best friend.

Robin switched on the light as he entered and shut the door behind him, tentatively. A sympathetic little frown covered the boy’s face.

But all the misery had left Wally’s when he saw Robin, a completely new thought coming to mind at the sight of Gotham’s Boy Wonder.

He got to his feet, “Dude, whatever happened to Scarecrow?” he asked, and Robin, who’d been walking closer, paused in his step, perplexed.

“What?”

“Er…” Wally shook his head, trying to grab better hold of the memory. “This is going to sound crazy…but, yesterday…” he had to pause for a second. Not yester _day_. Last night, maybe? But, after dinner with Uncle Barry, that he’d apparently not had at all. “Well, _whenever_ , Scarecrow showed up in Central City.”

Robin’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, “Wally…” he started skeptically, and Wally scowled at once.

Robin didn’t believe him. He’d been afraid of this.

“Yeah, yeah – I know, what would _your_ villain be doing in _my_ city? It sounds crazy – I said it would, but I’m _serious_ —”

“Wally, it’s not possible,” Robin cut in, his voice sounding filled with unfamiliar emotion to Wally’s ears. “Scarecrow’s in Arkham,” Robin had his hands raised like he meant to calm Wally down as he came closer, “Let’s just sit down, Wally. We can talk about this…you, you just…I-I know how you feel,” the kid’s voice trembled a little at those words and Wally felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. This was probably bringing up thoughts of his parents. “But I can’t help you if you’re like this…”

“Like _what_?!” Wally found himself snapping, suddenly and involuntarily giving in to the smallest bit of all those emotions he’d been trying to keep at bay since his afternoon sprint. After all, Uncle Barry _wasn’t_ dead, he just wasn’t. Wally could feel it in his bones. There was no reason to be sad over it.

“You’re in denial, Wally!” Robin snapped desperately, grabbing hold of his arms, clutching tight. “And I want to help you, t-to be there for you,” his voice hitched and cracked, and Wally stared at his sniffling friend. “I-I don’t want you to go through this alone like I had to, b-but I can’t if you’re like this!”

“Rob…” Wally breathed, all the fight suddenly drained out of him at the sight of his best friend’s face staring up at him. Tears leaked out from under Robin’s sunglasses, and the kid at once looked away. He didn’t let go of Wally, though, and the older boy clutched Robin’s elbows with his hands. “If you want to help, Robin, then you _have_ to believe me. You have to trust me that something’s not right here. My memories are all out of whack – Uncle Barry’s not dead—”

“ _Wally_ …” he cut off as Robin breathed his name and lightly shook his head. Fear clung to Wally’s insides as he waited on the boy to say something.

His stomach was tight, with _hunger_ , _dammit_ , and fear. A desperate, terrible fear.

And then it hit him like a bucket of ice cold water – _fear_.

He was afraid. He’d been afraid all week. And a mass of large and small fears he’d accumulated through his long life of sixteen years had all happened at once like he’d broken a mirror – not that he believed in _that_ – or had _really_ been cursed by some insane magician…

_Or…or a scary villain…_

And right now, his biggest fear was knowing the truth of something, but having it sound _so bizarre_ that no one, not even _Robin_ would believe him.

He needed…he needed to turn this around somehow.

He needed Robin to believe him.

He needed to be _afraid_ of Robin believing him.

But why would that scare him? What kind of consequence would Robin believing him have that would terrify Wally?

…

Pretty much the same as when Robin _didn’t_ believe him.

Wally would be terrified of getting it wrong, and screwing things up – and worse, Robin being a part of his mess and getting into trouble, and danger, or _worse_.

Yes, that was it. That’s what he was afraid of right now – more than anything.

That Robin believed him, but that it turned out he was wrong, that Uncle Barry was really dead, and nothing fishy was going on, and all these nightmares were just a coincidence.

That’s what he feared – Robin believing him and helping him with some insane scheme to set things right that aren’t actually wrong, and…and getting hurt for his efforts—

“I…I believe you, Wally,” Robin said in a small, resigned voice, and Wally recoiled.

“ _What?_ ” _What?! It worked? It actually worked?_

He tried really hard not to grin.

Robin looked up at him, his expression one of grim determination, but he said firmly, “I believe you, Wally. Tell me what we have to do.”

Wally did grin then, feeling elated. Now, all this had to do, was _not_ back-fire on him. “I need, I need—”

“Take a breath, and tell me then,” the Boy Wonder advised, and Wally obeyed.

“You keep an antidote on you for Scarecrow’s fear toxin?”

“Of course,” Robin nodded, letting go of Wally, who released him as well, to pull out his utility belt from somewhere on his person. Honestly, _where exactly_ the kid kept it, Wally had no freakin’ clue.

Robin produced a vial from one of the belt’s pockets and a syringe from another, and tossed the belt onto the bed. “What are we doing with this?”

Wally took the syringe without a word, punctured the vial’s cap with the needle and drained the liquid from the vial before he spoke, “I’m taking it.”

“Are you kidding me – what for?” Robin recoiled, snatching back the syringe at once. “You’re not infected – this could sort of kill you.”

Wally blinked, “Really?”

“Well, maybe not _kill_ you, exactly,” Robin conceded. “But you’ll probably get a bad headache,” he shrugged.

“Dude, my head’s been throbbing all day. Besides – you trust me, right?”

Robin watched him, looking skeptic again, and glanced from Wally to the syringe and back with a frown on his face. “I…don’t know, Walls—”

Wally didn’t let him finish, it was now or never. “Sorry, dude!” and he sped the syringe out of Robin’s hands, dashing round the bed where he poised the needle over his arm, sleeves already rolled back. “But this is the only thing I can think of that will help.”

After all, what better way to wake himself from a Scarecrow induced nightmare than by taking the cure?

“Wally…” Robin cringed.

Wally looked up at his friend and realized, if he was right, that was probably not even the _real_ Robin. He was only in his mind.

Robin flinched when Wally plunged the needle into his arm, the kid glancing at the door, looking like he was about to call someone for help.

Teeth grit, face set, Wally pushed down on the syringe, sending the antidote into his veins.

Though Wally was pretty sure he hadn’t shut his eyes when he’d given himself the cure, he distinctly felt them snap open a moment later.


	14. Fearless 5: Reality ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 2 Jan 2014.

**{hunger}**

**Interlude: Reality.**

**Chapter One: Wally West.**

When Wally opens his eyes he’s immediately, acutely, aware of three things:

Firstly, his vision is hazy and it’s on account of two reasons – the one is that there’s a thin layer of fog in front of his eyes, quickly dissipating, and the second, is the seemingly thick, not quite see-through glass before him that makes it difficult to make out anything beyond it.

Secondly, Wally can hear muffled, distorted voices from somewhere, potentially beyond the glass, but he can’t make out anything distinct because his ears are sort of ringing and his mind doesn’t seem to comprehend their language on account of its fuzzy, _thick_ feel.

And that’s the third thing he knows, his head feels a little… _trippy_.

What was he – drugged?

Wally wants to moan, just to know that his voice is still there and working, at least, and also because his throat feels _really_ dry, he realises, and making some sound is sort of impulsive because of this fact, but he restrains, because if he did, the shapes beyond the glass and their voices might notice him.

It also dawns on him as he wakes up a little more by the second, that his arms are raised above his head, and they’re sort of stretched out, and tied at the wrists, he feels, and his back is against something, and his ankles are tied as well, but his feet aren’t touching the floor.

He’s assuming there is one.

His limbs are heavy, and they ache from the stretched-out position, and they tingle as he flexes his fingers, and his toes in his boots, and he figures he must have been here a goodly while.

He doesn’t know where here is, but the first thing that comes to mind is _Cadmus_ , because, he realises, this is undoubtedly a _pod_ , and who else specialises in the torture-in-a-pod practice?

The feel of his uniform against his skin is soft and stretchy, like always, and he realises – so many realisations to be had in the minute he’s been awake – that he’s _in his uniform_ , which means he was…what? On a mission, out on patrol with his uncle? – before he clearly got napped by…well, whoever resides beyond the glass.

And Wally’s blinking furiously to clear his vision, and squinting to make out the shapes beyond the glass, and straining his ears, and wishing he could clear one with a forefinger like that would help, in the hopes of hearing their words.

And then one of them disappears from his vision, moving away from in front of his pod, and Wally’s blinking a little less because things are finally coming better into focus, and the glass doesn’t seem nearly as opaque as he’d thought.

He kind of sucks in a gasp at the last second, and kind of squeaks anyway, defeating the point of trying not to make a sound, but the man on the other side of the glass has his back turned to Wally, and has his attention on the other one Wally doesn’t see anymore, and he doesn’t hear.

Wally breaths out really slowly only because he _has_ to breathe out, because he certainly can’t hold his breath forever, but he does it slowly and _very_ quietly, because he recognises the shape a few feet from him and he doesn’t want the man to turn and see he’s awake.

He’s tall, and he’s slender, and the purple of his suit and green of his hair is a dead give-away for who he is.

The _Joker_.

_Robin’s_ Joker. _Batman’s_ Joker. And Wally can’t understand why _he’s_ here, imprisoned in a _Cadmus_ pod, by a villain that’s not even “his”.

Wally has his eyes narrowed and he’s thinking it over, and he’s wondering at the last thing he can remember, but it’s pie and that doesn’t help him at all, and he’s been thinking a couple of seconds before he realises he can hear again.

It’s like when you’re doing homework with music in your ears, and you’re concentrating on the formula, and you’re really into it, and the next moment you’re singing the chorus of a song you just _suddenly_ heard even though it’s been playing in your ears for two and a half minutes already.

“I don’t _know_ ,” it’s the Joker speaking, answering a question, apparently, and he sounds genuinely perplexed and intrigued, and Wally notices he has his hands somewhere in front of him and he must be looking at something ahead of him.

So Wally squints, and kinds of lifts up his head to look past the purple clad villain and he sees—

“But it’s a fun, fun, _fun_ ,” he grounds out the last word in a harsher tone before slipping back into the more insane one, “Concept! Little Boy Wonder in a fear-filled reality over and over and _over again!_ ”

Wally swallows at his very dry throat that kind of stings, because he sees the pod opposite his, and Joker’s in the way, but he caught a glimpse of gloveless hands and red sleeves, bound the same way he is.

“It _is_ an interesting development I wouldn’t have thought of,” says another voice, much more composed, and it must be the shape Wally had seen before, but he can’t see it anymore. It’s off somewhere to his left, and when it speaks he doesn’t recognize it. “But it’s the only explanation. The antidote is trying to repel the fear, so the reality in his mind slows down, turning the situation into one of comfort, and safety. But the toxin takes over again, creating the fear all over.”

“How long will it _last_?” Joker must be grinning by his tone.

“Until the antidote works its way through his system and out of it,” the other man’s tone is lazy, offhand, but then it sounds…smug. “Of course, the toxin will stay present long after that.”

Joker laughs. It’s a little throaty giggle of sadistic triumph and Wally swallows, trying to figure out what they mean and what they’re talking about.

“What of the others?” Joker enquires, sounding suddenly like a serious businessman, and he turns, and he has his one hand to his chin and the other crossed over his chest, and his back is really straight, and Wally kind of shrinks and slits his eyes, afraid the Joker might notice him from the corner of his eye.

Joker’s looking at something else, but Wally’s looking at Robin, having a better view of his best friend now that Joker’s frame is thinned.

Robin’s head hangs, he’s unconscious, and he’s tied and podded like Wally, but the speedster can’t make out much more – injuries? Faking it? _Something?_ – through the glass and through the fog, a sick-looking green-brown thing that hangs in the air around Robin’s head. He must be breathing it. Breathing it and suffocating on it, Wally’s mind freaks out.

What’s-his-name is still speaking, but Wally’s not hearing, because his slow mind has suddenly caught up – _others?_

What others?

He’s turning his head to see, and he kind of does – a pod next to Robin, more of the brown-green fog in it, and on the other side of Robin is another pod, but it’s empty, but the Joker is looking to his right and Wally guesses that wherever the “others” are, it’s there and he can’t see them so he doesn’t know who they are and that kind of makes his stomach sink despairingly.

His team? Random innocent civilians?

“…will grow, until they’re dead of fear or something, I guess. That’s what we’re here to see,” the last is said with certain malice, and some excitement, and intrigue, and Wally is kind of reminded of himself whenever he gets excited over some new science thing he’s been wanting to try and is finally able to – just without all the evil.

Joker’s grinning, and laughing quietly like it’s an instinctive thing, the way other people breathe without thinking, but Wally’s not looking at him and not paying attention.

His brain has kind of been running on super-speed since he woke up, because he hasn’t actually realised it exactly, but he’s been panicked all this time, but he’s noticed it now – like the mention of someone dying let him know he was silently freaking out when really it wasn’t the time – and he’s trying to be _less_ panicked.

So Wally shuts his eyes for a moment – or whatever passes for a “moment” to him – and he breathes in deep, and lets it out slow, and he moves his tongue in his mouth, trying to work up some spit to swallow down his _very dry throat_ , because it’s as close to water as he can get right now.

Finally he notices the pit in his stomach. Obviously he hasn’t eaten in a while. The revelation adds to the heaviness of his limbs with a new feeling that’s not just “hanging around” – _tiredness_.

Wally sighs – _quietly_ – as his heartbeat slows down and he relaxes in his restraints, ready to start thinking clearly.

So he opens his eyes—

He croaks out a strangled cry at the sight of the Joker’s wide, grey-green eyes right in front of him, the clown’s mouth split into a wider grin than what should be humanly possible.

Wally recoils, snaps his head back against the back of his pod, which leaves him with a painful throb for a moment, and at once his heart speeds up again at the sight of the Joker with his face pressed up to the glass so close his nose is flattened and his hands are on the glass right next to his face, and he’s grinning and looking _insane_ —

“We have a _live one!_ ” he shrieks, even as Wally cries out, and it’s loud in Wally’s ears and it sounds crazy, and makes Wally’s skin crawl and his hands fist and he squirms in his restraints, but it’s useless and he knows it, so he ends up frozen with his teeth clenched and staring down at the Joker with his heart pounding in his chest.

Joker laughs.

It’s hearty, but it sounds _cruel_ , and he has his head thrown back and his eyes closed, but he’s still pressed up against the pod, and despite the glass separating them, to Wally it’s still _much_ too close for comfort.

He breathes, and it’s quick, like his heartbeat, but then its normal almost just as fast, and Wally’s _thinking_ again, and almost calm again – they’ve fought the Joker before.

As a team. And they beat him.

Well, Bats knocked him out, but that’s not the point.

What Wally needs to do isn’t to freak out – he needs to talk. He needs to get the Joker monologue-ing, because he’s a villain and they love doing that. Plus, Wally needs to know how they ended up here and what’s going on since his memory isn’t being forthcoming.

“Alright, the joke’s over already!” Wally spits at him, scowling, and at the sound of his voice Joker stops laughing at once. His head snaps down at Wally in a move that _sounds_ almost _painful_ , like he’s just _really_ snapped his neck. Even though he isn’t laughing anymore, he’s still grinning like a maniac.

Joker’s face is pale with white make-up, and his grin looks wider than it should be because of – well, he has a disturbingly wide mouth, but also – the red face paint that covers his lips and stretches across his cheeks, too. Wally doesn’t remember him having had the extra added mouth-corners the last time they fought. Maybe it’s something he picked up in Arkham.

Wally wants to ask what the Joker’s doing outside the nuthouse anyway, but Joker’s speaking and doesn’t give him the chance.

“No,” says the clown, very simply, and because Wally’s mind has super-sped through thoughts of the Joker’s altered appearance and a list of questions he should start asking, Wally’s almost forgotten what he’s already said that evoked the Joker’s current response.

Joker doesn’t notice. “No,” he says again, in a different tone of voice, and then he cuts Wally off and plays with the word in a multitude of tones and accents, and general _craziness_ , each one sounding creepier than the last, “ _No._ Nooooo. No! No. No-oh! No. No! No-no-no-no- _noooo. No!!!_ ”

His grin is a mortified scowl by the end of his lament, and he’s scowling, and his brows are furrowed and he frowns at Kid Flash in an expression Wally’s never seen on a human face before.

Joker’s still clutching at the glass with his hands, but his head turns to his right and he calls towards the man Wally can’t see, “ _Whyyyy_ is he _awake?!_ Why is he awake? _Why?!_ ”

“Kid Flash – speedster,” the other man’s voice is low, and it sounds sort of pensive, and monotonous, like he’s reading off something. There’s a rustle of papers, even, and he’s still muttering, but Wally can’t really hear him until he says, “Must have sped the toxin through his system and gotten out of it faster. I didn’t notice…”

“Then what are you _waiting for_?” the Joker growls, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Give him more! _More_ this time, _more!_ ”

“I’m already—”

Joker cackles, drowning out the rest of the man’s words, and Wally swallows. Joker’s spinning, his hands outstretched as he laughs.

Wally’s eyes widen when the same fogginess that had faded when he woke, green-brown like in Robin’s pod, suddenly shoots down in front of his eyes from somewhere overhead, and Wally makes the mistake of breathing—

It smells putrid, and he gags, and it makes his eyes water, and his breath hitch, and his stomach churn and his heart _beat—_

And then Wally’s eyes roll back in his head, and his head lolls forward and his vision goes black, and the last thing he hears is the Joker’s laugh that kind of morphs into the sound of a harshly beating wind, howling around the trees.

Wally stood with his hands in his pockets, solemnly staring down at his uncle’s grave.

The grass around his sneakers, around the grave, is bright green. Everything is _green_. It had rained. The night before? The morning of? Overhead the sky is still wrapped in grey.

Wally couldn’t remember how he’d ended up at Uncle Barry’s grave. The past few days – the _funeral_ – is a blur.

He feels bad about that; his inability to remember. It scares him; that he could forget a moment so _important_.

Tears stung the back of his eyes at the thought.

He feels bad because he hadn’t spoken to Aunt Iris and he should. He feels bad because he got Robin in trouble with Bats, for convincing him Wally needed a _fear-toxin antidote_ – how _insane_ was that?! – which sent him into a frenzy of hallucination, in which he got hold of Rob’s utility belt and ended up throwing smoke bombs and explosive birdarangs around the cave like a paranoid lunatic.

But mostly he feels bad because he’s standing in front of Uncle Barry’s _grave_. And it means Uncle Barry’s _dead_.

Uncle Barry’s dead.

_Uncle Barry_ is dead.

Uncle Barry _is_ dead.

Uncle Barry’s dead.

And it hurts.

And it’s sad.

And it’s painful.

And he feels bad, because he _should_ hurt, and he _should_ be sad, and it _should_ be painful, and his _team_ hurts, and they’re sad for him, and his family, and they want to be there for him, and they want to help him, but Wally can’t…he just… _can’t_.

Feel… _any_ of it.

Because he’s too filled with guilt.

Because Uncle Barry. _Is dead_.

And a single solitary thought is at the forefront of his mind when, if it were anyone else, if _he_ were anyone else, it would be the last thing on his mind.

But it isn’t, and _he_ isn’t, and he can’t help it’s the only thing he can manage to think even as he stares at _his uncle’s grave_ :

_So. Damn. Hungry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things starting to make sense after this? :P


	15. Fearless 6: Part1 ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 8 Jan 2014.

**{initial reaction}**

**Part One: Robin.**

**Chapter One.**

And then he was Robin again, and the spotlight in the tent illuminating his family’s ruined limbs was a spotlight no more – but moonlight, shimmering through the clouds overhead. He was no longer on the centre platform in the circus tent, but on the edge of a tall building’s roof. Which building, in what part of the neighbourhood, at what time of night, Robin wouldn’t ever be able to guess at.

 Everything had flown from his mind – everything but the memory – when he saw _it_.

Robin stared down at the alley below. His family’s lifeless corpses no longer filled his vision.

Instead, the darkness he stared at bore the outline of a black figure in its midst. Limbs contorted unnaturally, legs twisted beneath a heavy, muscular frame, arms bent and broken, bones protruding, blood spattered, neck wrung…

Robin stared.

His heart lurched, his breath caught.

What was this?

_What was this?!_

This couldn’t be.

It _couldn’t_ be…

It wouldn’t.

Not…

…Batman.

Batman.

_Batman._

With a screech that scratched painfully at his throat, Dick sprang up, eyes snapping open as he did so, his heart beating frantically in his chest.

The clatter of something falling to his left reached his ears, then something made of glass hit his bedside table, chipped with a loud _crack_ and rolled audibly across the carpet.

There was a startled cry amongst the sound of clanging cutlery and chipping china, but whilst he heard it all, Dick wasn’t paying it any actual attention.

Almost exactly the same moment he’d sat up in bed, waking from the frightening nightmare, all the strength had left his limbs, leaving them drained and powerless at keeping him upright. He flopped down onto his pillows and stared at the ceiling with his mouth agape, not realising it.

He blinked, and found his eyes were filled with unshed tears.

There was light beyond the curtains to his right, which were still shut. What time was it?

“…Master Dick?”

Dick’s head snapped to the side, startled, and blinking loose the tears he found Alfred at his bedside, peering at him with a concerned, yet sympathetic frown.

Dick’s heart, which had slowed down a little after the sudden rush of fear upon waking up, quickly started up again.

Alfred, in a soothing voice, had his mouth open to ask in his familiarly calm British accent about nightmares, but Dick cut him off as he lunged forward with a hand to the butler’s shoulder, clutching at the dark material of his coat and demanding urgently, “Alfred, where’s Bruce?”

It had been _too_ real. Too much like the dreams he’d had after his family’s fall, for it to _not_ have been real. Not just a nightmare, not just a bad dream, not just some fear-induced illusion – no, it was more like a _memory_. Haunting him the way his parents’ deaths had haunted him for _weeks_ after they fell, _so_ long ago.

Never mind he clearly wasn’t on a rooftop somewhere in Gotham and he had no idea what might have happened after Batman – Bruce – after he…

Since he couldn’t even think it, Dick had no trouble believing he might have blocked it out altogether until morning.

New days looked brighter, fresher, like a new start – especially after a bad ordeal. At least, until it came back to you. In the form of someone’s sad, sympathetic expression – much the same way Alfred was watching him now – or a haunting memory waking you from an otherwise peaceful sleep. A _mockingly_ peaceful sleep.

Alfred’s expression turned from sympathy to regret before he’d done much more than move his lips to form a word in reply, and for all the patience Batman had engrained within Dick’s character, he couldn’t help but feel as though Alfred was speaking just _too slow_ for his liking.

Not to mention the older man’s _face_. He had to see for himself.

“Master Bruce—” the butler had barely started or Dick had let him go, throwing back his covers and getting to his feet, traipsing over the bed and hopping off the side before sprinted from the room in an anxious rush.

“Master Dick!”

Dick ignored Alfred as he ran down the hall, his loud footfalls echoing about the otherwise empty house. He swung around corners and sprinted down hallways until he finally reached the heavy wooden door that was the entrance to Bruce’s bedroom.

Breathing heavily, he halted abruptly in front of the door with one hand poised to knock vigorously, but then he stopped himself before his fist could start banging.

It wouldn’t do if Bruce opened the door, for his guardian to see him all distressed and dishevelled and out of his wits – _heavy_ on the dis and the out of it.

So he gulped in a quick breath of air, which was the only thing he could manage by way of any form of breathing at the moment, and knocked twice. Curtly. Like nothing was wrong. “Bruce?”

He chewed at his lip.

“Bruce!” he knocked again, rapping his knuckles against the door a couple of times – _politely_.

But there was no reply.

“Dammit, Bruce,” he mumbled, knocking some more, weight shifting from one foot to another in a motion reminiscent of an antsy Wally West. _Language_ , a little voice had time to berate him from out of a corner in his mind, but the devil on his shoulder wanted to retort with “screw it” and “Bruce wouldn’t have heard it anyway”, but that only brought on another thought, _Because he’s not in there. He’s—_

“Bruce!” he yelled, and hammered at the door, new tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

Finally, he grabbed hold of the brass doorknob and turned, turned, _turned_ – but it was locked. What was it locked for? Bruce rarely locked his door – nobody went in there anyway!

“Master Dick—”

Bruce’s room wasn’t _that_ far from Dick’s, a couple of short hallways and quick corners, but Dick hadn’t expected the old butler to catch up to him this fast. Or maybe he’d been hammering at Bruce’s door longer than he thought.

Alfred had a hand on his shoulder, was turning Dick away from the door, and the young boy let him, shaking fingers losing their grip on the door handle.

“Where is he, Alfred?” Dick asked again, as the man knelt in front of him, both hands on his shoulders now.

There was a lump in Dick’s sore throat and he swallowed around it, repeating the question without pause to actually give Alfred time to answer, “Where is he? Where is he?”

“Calm yourself, Master Dick, please,” Alfred implored firmly, but Dick felt his head shake in defiance.

“Don’t tell me – don’t tell me he’s—” he choked on the words, trembling hands grasping at Alfred’s lapels, “Just-tell-me-where-he-is,” he breathed through his teeth, lips barely moving.

Alfred’s entire expression was a painting of compassion, his grey-blue eyes deep pools of sympathetic understanding and sadness.

Dick couldn’t imagine what the look on his own face must have been like for Alfred. He could feel the trails of wetness streaked across his cheeks, droplets of tears spilling over his chin, running down his neck and tickling his collarbone. He knew he was staring wide-eyed at Alfred, his brows furrowed, his teeth clenched and his bottom lip trembling. He must look awful – which is not to say “full of awe” at all.

“Master Bruce is _fine_ , Master Dick,” he said. A sharp little intake of breath made Dick’s shoulders shake, and the butler squeezed them gently. “Regrettably, Master Bruce had to work today, of all days – I know. He has several important meetings, amongst other things, but wanted me to assure you he’d come round this afternoon for lunch. Whatever you think happened, Master Dick, it was no more than a bad dream—”

Alfred sounded like he meant to say more, but Dick had heard enough.

“I need to see him, Alfred,” he said urgently, his voice stronger, sounding more like himself. He tugged at Alfred’s lapels, like that would surge a bout of action from the butler, but the man wasn’t moving. “Now! Take me to him, come on—”

He made to move, dragging Alfred up and with him if that’s what it took, but Alfred had him firmly by the arms now and kept him rooted to the spot in a vice-like grip the boy hadn’t realized he possessed.

“Alfred, I _need_ to—” he started up again, determined to drive some sense into the stubborn butler.

“Might I suggest a _phone call_ , Master Dick,” Alfred interrupted pointedly, and Dick froze altogether for a second. He hadn’t thought of that. But then he blinked – _not good enough!_

He said as much, “No – I need to _see_ him! I need to be _sure_ he’s okay!” he squirmed under Alfred’s grip, but couldn’t get loose. “Alfred, _please_ , he could be dead for all I know!” Dick pleaded, cringing as his voice almost cracked by the end of the sentence.

He blinked, trying to blink _back_ the tears, only to have them slip onto his cheeks. He was having a meltdown, he was dimly aware, and it made him feel extremely uncomfortable – even if it was only in front of Alfred. Alfred, who had always been there to qualm his fears when he was younger and had many more, Alfred who comforted him with ice-cream and cookies and other unhealthy foods whenever his heart had sunk beneath the soles of his shoes for whatever reason, Alfred who stitched up his nicks and cuts, and tended to his scars and bruises until they were barely more than shadows of his night time exploits on his skin.

Alfred knew every part of him – every part of Dick, every part of Robin. He listened even when Dick thought there was nothing to be heard – he listened to him _and_ to Bruce, and like a ninja mind-reader, Alfred always knew just what the two of them were feeling and what to say to help them understand their own feelings and come to terms with them.

Freaking out in front of Alfred was nothing to either be ashamed or embarrassed about, but realising that he was, made Dick squirm inside.

Robin was stronger than this, more rational than this. If Alfred said Bruce was fine then that was what he was. Alfred wouldn’t lie. If Alfred needed him to calm down, needed him to listen, then that’s what Robin did. It was so much easier sometimes to listen to Alfred than Bruce, even. Sometimes, in some ways, he even thought he was a little closer to Alfred than he was to Bruce. If nothing else, Alfred was certainly closer to Dick than the butler was to Bruce, despite having spent many more years with Robin’s mentor than with the little bird.

Even so, Alfred loved them both dearly, Robin knew. And if something really _had_ happened to Batman, Alfred wouldn’t be so calm about it…would he? Unless it was just for Dick’s sake.

Did the butler know him so well he knew he’d have some kind of nervous breakdown in the wake of his mentor’s—

“Master Dick, you have not eaten, neither are you dressed for an outing,” Alfred’s gentle, coaxing tone pulled him from his reverie, from his disconcerting feelings at being this vulnerable in front of his mentor’s caretaker. “If establishing Master Bruce is indeed _alive and safe_ , since my assurance is not quite good enough,” Dick almost winced at the words and the potential accusation behind them, but Alfred’s tone held no such inclination, “Does it not make more sense to call, sir? It is a fair amount quicker than a lengthy, traffic-ridden limousine ride into the heart of the city?”

Dick stared at Alfred, all the fight drained out of him.

He sniffed, and wiped at a cheek with the heel of one hand – the motion didn’t deter Alfred’s grip on his arms, though it did lessen somewhat, apparently content that he wasn’t about to bolt anymore.

“Alfred, why do you make so much sense?” he mumbled, feeling stupid.

“Someone has to, sir,” Alfred said lightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I need the phone,” Dick realised aloud, and made to pass Alfred again, intent on running downstairs after all, but the butler had seen it coming despite his lessened hold on Dick.

“You should know by now, sir,” Alfred said, briefly holding tight enough to keep Dick in place before one hand retreated into the inside pocket of his coat. “That I have thought,” he said, producing a cellphone and holding it out to the boy, “Of everything.”

“Alfred,” Dick breathed gratefully, snatching the phone from the man’s grip, flipping it open and poising his thumbs ready to dial Bruce’s number, only to pause with one on a button.

Bruce had meetings all day, Alfred had said. Dick didn’t usually interrupt those, especially when he didn’t actually have anything to say to the man. All he really wanted – needed – right now, was to know Bruce was okay, just to hear his voice – for now; he was still determined to drag Alfred to the car and make him drive him to Wayne Enterprises (if he didn’t just end up driving himself on Robin’s bike – as Robin, obviously).

But would his guardian be cross at the interruption? Probably not, he’d be more interested in what prompted the call in the first place. Robin’s dream. Dick’s churning stomach at the thought of his father-figure broken in an unknown alley somewhere, and the morbidly _real_ feel of it.

Dick would have to explain. Confess. Open up.

Breaking down in front of Alfred was one thing, but Bruce…Bats was a completely different thing.

Sometimes Dick could hardly find it in himself to tell the man _anything_ anymore, and not for lack of trying. It just made him feel too… _vulnerable_ , by comparison. Batman never had meltdowns and never needed to spill his guts in a touchy-feely, teary-eyed, emotional admission.

“Nightmares are something Master Bruce understands quite well, Master Dick,” Alfred said suddenly, sounding inexplicably as though he’d been reading minds again. “He’s all too familiar with the experience, you should not forget. He would not mind,” and Alfred reached over the cellphone’s keys with one finger to press a single button and then the little green phone symbol. Bruce’s name appeared on the screen, a dial-tone coming from the device at once, but Dick didn’t lift it to his ear just yet.

“Especially not today, sir,” Alfred added quietly, and Dick spared him a glance, not knowing what he was talking about.

“Hello?” Bruce’s familiar voice sounded through the phone in Dick’s hands, making his heart leap.

“Bruce?” he said urgently, pressing the phone to his ear, unable to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “I—” but the smile faltered immediately. He what? _What?_ Had a dream that his mentor had died in a dingy disgusting alley and woke up thinking it was so real he’d gone running around the house looking for him like a crazy person? Yes, that didn’t sound like Arkham-inmate material at all.

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice echoed firmly through the phone. An interruption, a statement, a soothing balm over words Dick didn’t _have_ to say, sparing him the need. “How are you feeling today?” Robin didn’t miss the hint of a very _slight_ emphasis on that last word. “Are you alright?”

Bruce’s tone was calm, his voice steady and soothing, as though he were speaking to a _child_.

Robin didn’t quite know what to make of it. Was he missing something?

“I’m…I’m fine,” Dick breathed, and as soon as he’d said it, he really was. Bruce was on the other end of the line, and he was speaking _normally_ – which was only to say, completely turbed. Traught. Whelmed. Not as though he were under any kind of duress – very _ress_ , then.

He wasn’t using any code words informing of a compromising situation – of either the Bruce Wayne, billionaire businessman, or the Batman, night time Dark Knight vigilante, variety.

Which was all good. All very good.

Except that Bruce sounded so very… _caring_. In a careful sort of way, not the usual “I’m glaring my concern for you, at you”-way – which was a fond way, don’t be mistaken – but rather a more subtle-sounding, sensitive approach kind of way, that made Dick feel uneasy only because he didn’t know what it was for.

“Are _you_ alright?” Dick heard himself blurt out, on account of Batman’s tone as much as the remnants of his dream still lingering in the corners of his mind.

Very pointedly, he wasn’t looking at Alfred, aware of the spots of colour that most certainly rose on his cheeks at the outburst.

A little noise on the other end, as though Bruce had given a fond little laugh away from the receiver, and then when he answered, Dick could hear the small, kind smile in his voice, “Yes, Dick. I’m fine, as well. I… _do_ have some bad news, though—”

“ _What?_ ” Dick asked at once, distressed, and the image of a dark alley, one bright spotlight overhead, flitted across his mind’s eye. He almost shuddered, but that wouldn’t do – not in front of his mentor. Or Alfred.

“It’s…” Bruce sounded hesitant, but resigned, and disappointed, and _guilty_ as he continued, “Meetings. And paperwork. All day. I’ll have to stay through lunch, there’s too much to do for me to go home, and – and I know I _promised_ I would be there for you today, but…” a heavy sigh, filled with heaps of frustration. “Well, there’s only _so much_ Lucius can do without me, you understand?”

Dick was nodding along with Bruce’s words even though his guardian couldn’t see him. At the answer of “meetings”, the boy had practically melted in relief that it hadn’t been anything more serious. Meetings all day didn’t sound so bad. In fact, it sounded pretty safe to Dick – what could possibly happen to Bruce at his office? Attack by staple-gun? Ha!

_…Wait, that’s not funny—_

“Dick…?” hesitant again, concerned and filled with remorse.

“I understand,” Dick said, smiling, because he did understand, and he did feel content. Somewhat. His gut was still bothering him a little. His dream wasn’t gone from his mind yet. The very _realness_ of the nightmare still clawed at his insides, trying to convince him it was not as fictitious as it seemed.

He still needed to see Bruce for himself. Touch him; speak to him face to face.

“But, I…” his smile faltered.

“What do you say…we skip patrol tonight? One night in the entire year can’t make that much of a difference, right?”

The suggestion brought Dick up short for a brief moment.

“We could just…spend the rest of the day together. Along with Alfred, as a…as a normal family. If you want. I realise today might not be the _best_ day to suggest— or, perhaps it is _because_ it is today—”

Dick swallowed around a new lump in his throat, not listening to Bruce’s mumbling.

He wanted very much.

Of course, Dick knew the Batman was lying, technically. The moment Dick went to bed he’d be out patrolling by himself. Technically, it wouldn’t be _today_ , though. It would be “tomorrow”.

But in light of the nightmare he didn’t care. Besides, sneaking out was second nature and again, in light of the nightmare, there was no way he was letting Bruce out on his own. But he wanted very much the illusion of a family. Doing normal family things that wasn’t training, or skimming through case files, or polishing Batmobiles and stitching up suits – or themselves – and okay, Alfred did those last ones, but still.

“I want,” Dick said flatly, and then chewed at his lip in anticipation of a response. He frowned at the wall, meanwhile, mentally still noting he was missing something.

“Good,” Bruce said, and Dick imagined him nodding. “In the meantime, I’ve excused you at school, of course, and Alfred is at your beck and call – of course,” it was a school day? Dick had hardly realised _what_ day it was, or what the time was for that matter, but – he was excused? _What for?_ “And I’ll see you later this evening. Alright?”

Dick wanted to ask about school, but Bruce had only just paused to wait for his answer, when the man spoke again abruptly, “I’m sorry, Dick – I’m needed in conference. Have been for the past five minutes,” a little smile in his tone, to soften the implication that his ward had held him up from important business he needed to attend to. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, filing the weirdness away for later confrontation. And then, before his guardian could hang up, “Bruce?” a little too anxiously for his own liking.

“Yes?”

“I-I…”

A pause on either end, then—

“I know, Dick,” Bruce said, gentler than before. “I… I know.”

“Okay,” Dick breathed, though he wasn’t sure _he_ knew at all what he’d been about to say. He and Bruce were hardly the emotional types.

There was a _click_ on the other end and Dick lowered the phone from his ear and looked up at Alfred as he snapped it shut. Alfred’s was one of those older flippy kinds – the butler really needed an upgrade.

Alfred’s expression was one of polite anticipation, but when Dick didn’t speak he took to enquiring, “Feel better, Master Dick?” he asked with the smallest of smiles, touching the young boy’s arm comfortingly.

“Relatively,” Dick replied, frowning.

“Something is still the matter?”

“Bruce sounded…” he shrugged. “Just strange. He wants us to…spend the day together like _a family_.”

“That’s not _so_ strange, Master Dick,” Alfred said sympathetically. “In light of things. He only wants the best for you today.”

“And _that_ ,” Dick said at once, pointing at Alfred as though he were pointing at his words. “He kept doing that, too. Talking about today like it’s… _special_ , or something. Am I missing a running joke, Alfred? What is today? And—and why am I skipping school for it?”

Alfred’s eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parting in surprise. But then his expression turned the slightest bit cross, making Robin frown again, “Master Dick – that is not amusing.”

Robin scoffed, “I’m serious, Alfred. What is today?” he asked, exasperated now.

Alfred swallowed, and recognition crossed his face as he realised Dick really didn’t know.

“Master Dick,” he began, his voice unsure and concerned. He grasp Dick’s other arm as well and squeezed gently. “Today is…well, it’s—” he swallowed nervously.

Robin pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows expectantly, and turned his head a little with one ear directed at Alfred in waiting.

But when the butler complied with the date, Dick blanched. “Wh-what?” he stuttered, blinking. “Alfred, that’s not funny!” he reprimanded indignantly.

Alfred’s expression was sad, eyebrows knotted together in sympathy, his lips a thin line, and his hands squeezing comfortingly.

Dick shook his head, and then, finding some clarity – a way of contradicting the older man, because he _must_ have gotten his dates wrong – Dick flipped open the phone still in his hands to check.

But there it was.

He dropped the phone, only dimly aware that it bounced, the battery popping out.

“Alfred,” his throat felt tight, like someone had their thick meaty fingers wrapped around it. “D-did I…f-forget,” suddenly he couldn’t speak quite right, or see straight anymore – the tears he’d shed for Bruce’s _fall_ suddenly springing to his eyes for a different one.

Dick found his nose buried in Alfred’s shoulder a second later without knowing how it got there, the butler’s arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

“My p-p-parents’…” he was still mumbling though, through the now-falling tears. He couldn’t help but say it aloud, even though the words struggled to form, “P-p-parents’… parents’…” _Anniversary of their deaths._


	16. Fearless 7: Part1 ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 12 Jan 2014.

**{reprieve}**

**Part One: Robin.**

**Chapter Two.**

Dick had spent nearly two of the following six hours in a tearful mess.

He was crying into Alfred’s shoulder, his whole body eventually shaking involuntarily and seemingly without end until at last the butler pulled away to guide him toward his room, a sturdy hand on his shoulder and soothing words in the air.

Later Dick would be repeating the process into his pillow, for the most part, until Alfred found him again and pulled him back into a hug.

At some point Dick had managed to sleep through an entire hour. Dreamlessly. Blissful. Deceptively so; waking up to the unkindness of the day – unkind for it simply being _the day_ – and having it all come back a second time.

The remaining three hours he had spent cross-legged on his bed, in solitude – on his laptop, reading and rereading articles from four years ago, from several different newspapers  all telling the same story and its aftermath from a different point of view.

In his mind, Dick unwrapped the folded red, blue and yellow acrobat’s outfit, and let the memory he’d stuffed into the – apparently _deepest_ – crevices of his mind unfold.

He recalled swinging on the trapeze with his family. He felt the wind caress his bare arms, his face, as he flew. He felt his father’s strong hands grab a hold of his wrists, his mother’s soft but firm grip on him, keeping him safe. He painted their faces across the dark canvas of his closed eyelids and made them smile at him. He tried smiling back.

He frowned, lips pressed in a tight, frustrated line, trying to remember words. What had his father said when he ruffled his hair right before their final act? What was the mantra his cousin John kept repeating at him whenever he complained about not being allowed in the finale? What was his mother’s voice like when she sang to him?

Or… or when she said three little words? “My little robin.”

_My little robin._

Were those even the right words…?

He didn’t know.

He could remember. He could relive the day’s events – and the more he thought about it, he could almost narrate it hour by hour since he’d woken up that morning until he’d drifted into a fitful sleep with tears staining his cheeks that night.

But their voices…he’d forgotten what they sounded like. Forgotten how they spoke.

When he wasn’t reading articles to re-familiarize himself with the event that had changed his life, he was on his bed Indian style, rummaging through an old shoebox.

It was filled with the leftovers of his…how he hated thinking of it that way, but it was true – _previous_ life.

His acrobat’s outfit, looking like the tiniest thing he’d ever seen, was bundled up into a ball and tied with string so it wouldn’t unfold and take up space. Later, when he fell asleep, he’d be clutching it in his hands.

Pictures. Making new tears spring to his eyes. Mom’s face. Dad’s kiss against his forehead. John’s arm round his neck in a playful headlock. Dick’s smile. His eyes. Maskless.

The elephant. The clown. Pop Haly. The big top. Home.

Other things littered the bottom of the box – an old wooden yoyo, a ball and some silver jacks, an old red nose, lipstick for some reason, chess pieces not from the same set, and a few scraps of paper he’d doodled on. An elephant. His mother and father holding hands. His aunt and uncle waving.

And a napkin, his tic-tac-to match against his mother scribbled on it in red and blue ink.

He couldn’t remember which one he’d been. Who had won. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t kept it because of any of that.

Sparing the ink half a glance, he’d pressed the napkin to his nose and breathed.

Years later…it still smelled like her.

He’d forgotten…their _day_. He couldn’t remember how they spoke, what they said. He didn’t recall their voices, their sounds, the cadence, their essence, but… But he still knew her smell.

The box was full of it, too, and, for the rest of the hour, he just breathed it in, not considering he might breathe it all up and leave nothing for next year.

When he woke up, clinging to his costume, the box open and the napkin still next to his nose, the smell was gone.

So he cried.

Desperate to make up for his incapability to remember what should be one of _the most important dates of his life_ , Dick had stuffed his nightmare about Bruce into the corner of his mind previously occupied by his parents and his life before the Boy Wonder.

It had come back in a rush over lunch, when Bruce called – all the fear of his mentor in mortal peril filling his lungs, making it hard to breathe for the space of a heartbeat, long enough for Bruce to assure him again that nothing was wrong on his end, he was merely calling to check up on his ward during the brief minute he had before the next conference. To apologize again for not being able to see him in person.

Bruce didn’t ask why Dick hadn’t bullied Alfred into driving him down to Wayne Enterprises so the boy could lay eyes on his guardian. He’d done it before; just that morning he’d been intent on doing it again.

But that was before he saw the date.

The desire to remember his parents and family members had driven every other intention from his thoughts.

At least Bruce didn’t seem to mind, even if he said and sounded like he really wanted to see Dick. He’d laid eyes on the boy that morning before heading off to work, of course, but Dick had apparently been asleep so peacefully, Bruce hadn’t wanted to intrude. Perhaps it had been a nice dream. Cruel to rip him from the bliss of a fantasy and back into the tragic reminder of loss and what-could-have-been’s the reality was filled with today.

If only the Dark Knight knew.

After their conversation, as reassurance over his guardian’s safety settled back into his mind and his nightmare retreated, a new thought came to the fore alongside reminders of his lost family.

Had Bruce ever forgotten his parents? He’d been even younger than Dick when they were killed. Robin pondered this, wondering if his mentor still clung to the day his parents had died with a vengeance, if he was vigilant about recalling and repeating every detail of that night to himself whenever he had a silent moment, so he would _never_ forget.

Did he relive it in the early morning hours, back from patrolling dark streets in a frightening cape and cowl, when he shed the bat and slipped back into his human skin – the billionaire orphan – and lay still awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling?

Robin…didn’t.

When Alfred brought his meal up, Robin considered actually asking the butler. How many years had Bruce spent crying into Alfred’s shoulder before his sad expression turned into a hard, determined scowl? But he thought better of it, and returned to his reading instead. Food left mostly untouched.

At last when Dick looked up it was nearing five o’clock.

He felt drained – physically, emotionally, and mentally…even socially. Whilst he had no desire to talk to anyone, and Alfred had left him to his peace long since, he did however, find himself inexplicably craving human presence. Alfred was only one man, and Bruce wouldn’t be home for another hour – at least.

Dick wanted more than that.

He wanted to breathe in the scent of M’gann’s ever improving cooking, listen to her hum. He wanted to sit next to Kaldur in comfortable silence, simply being. He wanted Wally to zip back and forth across the room, spouting gibberish and trading smack talk with Artemis. He wanted to watch her in silence as she pulled back the string of her bow and loosed the arrow with a grunt. He wanted to spar a little with Superboy, letting out whatever emotions still lingered inside that couldn’t be cried out or screamed into a pillow – because he’d done a little of that, too.

He wanted to play cards with Zatanna and give her a little smirk, wiggle his eyebrows and hold out his hand for her to read his palm – whether it was only pretend or not. He shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The first since he’d grinned at Bruce’s voice that morning.

Robin found he was most definitely a people person, and whilst not even Wally knew what day it was, despite knowing everything else, he knew his friends, if anyone, would help him feel better even if they didn’t know they’d be doing it, and not they nor he had to talk for it to work.

Dick had hopped off the bed and was jogging down the Batcave’s steps before Alfred found him and a little guilt stabbed at the boy’s insides – he should have sought out Alfred first and told the butler what he was doing.

“Master Dick?”

Robin stopped short one foot halfway toward the next step, and, cringing only as long as his back was to Alfred, he turned to face the butler. “Sorry.”

“For?” Alfred asked patiently, making his stately way down the stairs towards the Boy Wonder.

“I should’ve gone to tell you – I’m taking a quick trip to Mount Justice.”

Alfred raised one eyebrow and looked at him down his nose, the shadow of a frown on his face. “I’ll be along to fetch Master Bruce shortly. I thought you would have wanted to come along.”

Honestly, Robin hadn’t thought of that.

He felt antsy, for no reason he could actually ascertain. He just didn’t want to sit still in the manor anymore. Be cooped up in his room, or stuck in a limo, waiting on Bruce. Despite _the day_.

He needed – _wanted_ – people, and this big old mansion was filled with too many ghosts.

“I know, Alfred,” he replied, casting around for some way of explaining. For once, Alfred didn’t opt to fill in the blanks for him. “I just…can’t sit here anymore. I want to see my friends. Just for a little while,” he added almost pleadingly, eyeing the butler like he could make Alfred understand just by giving him a look. “I’ll be back before dinner, I _promise_. And then we’ll spend the whole night together – like a family, just like Bruce said.” A pause, but Alfred didn’t speak, and Dick implored again, “Please?”

He knew he wasn’t getting out of there without Alfred’s permission.

At last, after a lengthy moment of silence – nothing but the echoing screeches of the cave’s first inhabitants overhead – in which the butler wore an expressionless mask on his face, for all but the somewhat narrowed eyes that were the only sign to indicate he was thinking it over, Alfred sighed.

Idly, Robin thought Alfred either got that look from Batman, or…the other way around?

The butler’s expression softened and he gave Dick a warm smile. “Would I be able to stop you from going in any way, sir?” he questioned, not a hint of animosity to his tone despite the resigned, frustrated words.

“Alfred…” Dick said quietly, sort of thinking it over and really considering what he would do if the butler did outright say “No, Master Dick, most certainly not. To the limousine.” Some part of him couldn’t disobey Alfred, though it came so easy slipping through loopholes in Batman’s orders, created by omissions in his own responses or his mentor’s lack of specificity. But on the other hand, he _really_ wanted to see his friends. He felt _compelled_ to go to them. Like, he’d miss out on something if he didn’t.

Finally, however, he decided that putting aside his own feelings and desires was what he – and Bruce – did best. They were just _like that_. It wasn’t the capes and the cowl or the mask that had made them that way. It had always just been _them_. That’s why the capes and the cowl and the mask fit them so well.

Alfred didn’t want him so far from home, not _today_.

And Bruce wanted to see him. They should come first. Others always did.

Thus he looked back up at the butler with a convincing little smile, and said, “All you have to do is ask, and I won’t go.”

Alfred returned the smile, and even though it was a smile, it was still filled with concern, and some mild disapproval, but understanding, and calm. For the briefest moment Alfred put a hand on Dick’s shoulder before he spoke, “I expect you home _long_ before dinner. Master Bruce would want to see you the moment he comes through the front door.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he shot back with a grateful grin, and spun on his heel at once to run down the rest of the stairs.

“Do not forget your attire, Master Robin,” Alfred said after him, and Dick called back that he wouldn’t even as he made for the cave’s closet space. Bruce just had… _everything_ down here.

Robin had his own little collection of civvies, because of course it wouldn’t do for him to been seen wearing the same outfit as a Gotham Academy mathlete. And not just because said mathlete was a mathlete and probably looked all kinds of dorky in his every day wear. Which he didn’t.

Of course, he wasn’t wearing any of those today. Apart from brushing his teeth, Dick hadn’t participated in any of the usual morning rituals – including changing clothes.

Once he’d swapped his pyjama bottoms for a pair of jeans, he quickly pulled his shirt over his head to trade it for a more Robin-esque one, shivering in the cold of the cave before he stuck his arms through. A jacket came next, and then he pulled on Robin’s sneakers over Dick’s socks.

Settling the final touch of his hero identity onto the bridge of his nose, the world turned a little darker through the lenses of his sunglasses, but Robin was long since used to it.

He made his way to the Batcomputer – everything was a ‘Bat’-something in the cave, and it always made him chuckle a little to think of it that way – and started typing away at the keyboard, designating where he wanted to end up at on the other side of the zeta-beam.

 _Of course_ the Batcave would have one, and of course it would only be one way. It beat taking the trip to an old broken phone booth hidden in a dilapidated part of the city, though, especially in case of a desired _quick_ trip. But there weren’t very many who really knew the location of the Batcave, because it wouldn’t do to have just _anyone_ pop up unexpectedly and wander upstairs into their secret lives.

Robin made his way to the zeta-tube, and listened to the familiar computerized voice chime as she announced—

_Recognized: Robin B-01._

And then he was gone from the Batcave and teleported over to Mount Justice.

Traveling by zeta-beam always left a little tingle across the skin, no matter how many times you did it. Shaking it off as he stepped into the common room of the cave, Robin felt instantly… _relieved_ inside. As though he’d arrived at the place he’d _needed_ to be, and he’d been anxious about getting there and afraid of missing something important, without even knowing it.

The training area was devoid of sparring lessons for the time being, but the team was all there, and their presence had Robin feeling even more relaxed. He’d come to spend a little time with them after all, and in his eager anticipation to see them, the possibility hadn’t quite occurred to him that none of them would be here.

It was a school night, after all; he really _should_ have thought of it. But it didn’t matter now either way.

He considered them as he approached; some sitting at the edge of the training area on easily conjured-up stools, others standing around, they were each one smiling and looking happy.

M’gann grinned, holding a plate of cookies out to Conner, who held one up before he bit into it. Heart-shaped. That made Robin smile. They were pink, too.

Zatanna, standing just behind Superboy, gave a melodic little laugh and said something Robin couldn’t hear. Sitting next to M’gann, Artemis replied to the magician’s remark, and waved a hand at Kaldur standing beside her to pull him into the conversation.

Crossed arms, looking as stoic as ever, Kaldur’s reply was quiet, but he smiled.

Wally, Robin realised with disappointed, was absent.

“Hey, Boy Wonder!” Zatanna greeted, Robin barely having gone two steps away from the zeta-tube. He grinned at her, waving a little.

“I made cookies, would you like some?” M’gann leaned forward to look at him around Artemis. Kaldur broke off in the middle of what he was saying to look back at said Boy Wonder, too.

“Of course,” he replied easily, and then, because he really wanted to know, “And also, where’s Wally?”

But he’d hardly said the words, and Artemis had barely opened her mouth to reply – likely in some snide manner – or Wally had sped in from the kitchen and came to a stop right in front of Robin, brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Robin had stopped in his step abruptly, and might have lost his footing and stumbled back were it not for KF’s quick hand on his arm, a packet of chips in his other one.

“ _Dude_ ,” he hissed, so the others couldn’t hear, “What are you doing here?”

Robin frowned, suspicious – did Wally know what day it was? Had he look up the date or something? Robin had kind of deliberately left it out in the sharing of his backstory – to prevent exactly this kind of behaviour.

“Shouldn’t you be at home?” Wally’s voice sounded a little strained to Robin’s ears. His shoulders were slumped, his hand on Robin’s arm holding tight, squeezing in a sympathetic sort of way, like Alfred had been doing all day, and at the same time it clung as though expecting Robin to fall right down without the support.

Wally’s demeanour suggested something else – something more recent than the all-day event of parent death anniversary.

His green eyes were filled with concern, and a little moisture, like he’d seen a sad movie and felt enough emotion to maybe sort of shed a tear, without the actual tear-shedding. The corner of his mouth was twitching, as was the packet of chips in his other hand – nervously so.

Robin was suddenly painstakingly aware of Alfred’s absence, and then a deep, _sinking_ feeling settled into the pit of his stomach, filling with an all too familiar feeling of _fear_.

He opened his mouth, throat suddenly dry, and only managed the one word when he tried to speak, “… _Why?_ ”


	17. Fearless 8: Reality ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 16 Jan 2014.

**{fourteen}**

**Interlude: Reality.**

**Chapter Two: Bruce Wayne.**

GOTHAM CITY

December 27, 21:48 EST

_Team Year Zero_

He lands on the roof of a high-rise across from the booming club, in contrast not making a sound as his feet hit the concrete – not that just anyone would have heard him anyway.

The music coming from twenty stories below nearly drowns out everything else even this far away – how the ears inside must not be bleeding.

As soon as he lands and the line from his grappling gun retracts, he listens – because he has better ears than what boisterous music can overpower – for the almost inaudible sound of his partner’s feet flapping onto the roof just behind him. He doesn’t quite need to strain to hear it, and again, no one else would have so it occurs to him the boy does it on purpose to let him know he’s there.

Robin saunters over, hunched low and hidden in the shadows, while Batman slinks behind the parapet, glaring over the edge at the club below.

Robin joins him with a flutter of his cape as it settles down, and he grins, and speaks in hushed tones the Batman can hear despite the rave echoing through the night.

“ _Man_ , I am _still_ full with Christmas food,” the little bird chirps, delighted, “I am never eating again. Seriously,” but he says it with gratification, and shoots his mentor a sideways glance.

Batman shifts his glare toward the boy for the briefest of moments, acknowledging his words, though he may not quite approve of them.

Not the words themselves, just their existence.

“What? Wrong time?” the Boy Wonder quips, unashamed.

Batman’s only reply is a disapproving grunt as he turns his gaze away again; he doesn’t let Robin see the miniscule tug at the corner of his mouth.

The boy’s been chirpy all month, since after his birthday. Probably it has something to do with the seven minutes he spent in a closet.

Bruce has no idea what to make of it, or how to, or if he should even approach that topic with a ten-foot pole _at all_. But it’s put his protégé in a good mood, and despite how inappropriate that might seem – especially in the middle of a mission – Batman hasn’t ever managed to mind.

It’s part of Robin’s charm.

He’s barely turned away from the boy, or an echoing cackle loudly clashes with and then fades into the rhythm of the music, and Batman doesn’t need to turn his head to know the Boy Wonder’s disappeared.

Unperturbed, the Dark Knight whips out his grappling hook again, shoots a line, and flies through the dark.

He lands in the alley beside the club, Robin nowhere in sight because he’s hidden in the shadows, allowing the Dark Knight to “do the bat thing”, as he’d once so eloquently put it.

Spotlights drifting over-enthusiastically through the dark of the night, illuminating walls and buildings, and the alley’s darkest corners, shine from the roof of the club, the side of the building, through the windows along the highest reaches of the walls.

Batman’s query argue hurriedly in hushed tones, the light flickering across them for a moment, revealing their not-quite subtle exchange of package-for-cash. When the light passes a second time, they stop mid-sentence, catching sight of the shadow on the wall beside them from the corner of their eyes, and they turn their heads, bewildered and fear-struck.

It lasts only a few seconds – the dark bat-shaped shadow outlined by a yellow light, then red, before the dark envelopes it again.

Startled, they look around to where the shape belonging to the shadow must undoubtedly have been not a second ago, but they’re met by nothing but an empty alleyway.

The package is dropped, the cash forgotten – fingers trembling too fiercely to keep a good grip on either.

“It’s the _Bat_ …!” one hisses at almost the same time the other snaps indignantly at his partner, “I _told you_ this would happen!”

Another spotlight shines into the alley – more ominous than a lightning strike or a clap of unexpected thunder.

One man spins around to watch the wall as though the Batman’s shadow will appear there again, but the other keeps his eyes on the alley in search of the creature itself. Both are disappointed.

It’s barely a moment since the second man’s last words, so when the comment rings through the air just after the passing light, it’s not out of context—

“He should’ve listened to you!”

A grunt is accompanied by an echoing cackle, and it’s only because it’s right next to his ear that the first man hears it above the boom of the music. A moment later he goes down with the same strangled cry as his companion, and topples to the floor next to him with an audible _crack_ as his nose breaks against the alley floor.

Robin straightens and grins down at his handiwork.

Batman emerges from the shadows, strides over to the first man who fell, and plucks him off the ground with one hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. He’s dazed but awake.

Next to them the second man splutters, coughs, and pushes himself meekly up onto his elbows, gingerly fingering his nose.

Robin crouches in front of him with a snide grin and a tissue. “Don’t move,” the kid advises. “Just, as a side,” he gives a little shrug.

Of course the man doesn’t want to take the advice or the proffered tissue either, and makes to scramble to his feet.

Batman turns his attention fully to the dealer captured by his firm grip, as Robin gives the other one a _little_ leeway before he pounces on him, making quick work of gagging and tying him up no doubt.

Spotlights pass at irregular intervals; sometimes shining a light on the Bat’s decidedly angered expression.

The man he’s holding trembles with fear, and, hearing the grunts and cries of pain from his companion as Robin takes the guy down a second time, he almost shouts in a mad rush after Batman asks dangerously, “ _Where_ do these come from?” with barely a glance at the package the other man had dropped.

Once the information is revealed, Batman and Robin gag and tie the two dealers tightly together and hang them up by a lamppost down the street. It’s deserted, and noiseless for all but the raging music from the club that would serve to drown out their cries for assistance. Later, Batman calls Commissioner Gordon to pick them up.

He returns to the alley with his partner to gather the money, inspecting one of the bills with a critical eye – it’s undoubtedly forged. One more thing to address.

Robin makes a frowny face, his lips gathered into a corner of his mouth, and he eyes the discarded package over the tip of his nose. Then he drops down onto his haunches and stuffs his tongue in his cheek the same way he used to when he was still a kid. Well, _more_ of a kid.

Batman watches him discreetly from the corner of his eye.

He reaches down slowly with one single finger, making to poke at the package, and Batman waits deliberately until he’s _just that_ far away before he admonishes, “Don’t.”

There’s no reason to even be firm or scolding with his tone.

In fact, there’s no reason to have said it in the first place, because Robin does actually know better. Curiosity, cats, and all that.

Batman can’t think of a metaphor that includes birds and pertains to the same thing.

Robin bites his bottom lip, his finger curling in on itself. Then he stands.

“What is it, anyway?” he asks with a little shrug, and looks over at Batman.

He’s finished gathering the discarded cash, and stuffed it into his utility belt. Robin raises an eyebrow – because Batman’s attuned to the movements of his features despite the mask – and smirks cheekily, “You know you’re _fairly_ well-off, right?”

He ignores the boy, who chuckles ever so quietly at the fact, and instead answers his question, “I’m not sure. But it’s new and potentially dangerous if rumours are anything to go by.”

He reaches down to pick up the package – it’s a powder, and it’s a murky green-brown and unlike anything the Dark Knight has seen before, sealed tight within a see-through plastic bag. It’s about the size of Robin’s palm. He’s not sure what it is – it’s Christmas, it could be any damned thing. But, given what he knows, he has a hunch that he doesn’t like.

“We usually go by those?” Robin mutters, squinting in mock thought.

“Let’s go. We can analyse it in the cave. I want to know what it is before we tell Gordon.”

“Er…what about its origins?” Robin asks, reminding Batman of the dealer’s confession.

“Not tonight,” Batman replies firmly, perhaps a little too much so, because Robin catches the underlying meaning in his tone – not _together_.

He can practically _feel_ the boy’s scowl on his back as he swings away into the night. A moment later, he’s aware of the fluttering air behind him as the Boy Wonder follows in his wake, cape flapping distinctively.

He’s almost relieved, the most fleeting of thoughts having crossed his mind – a disappearing act by the Boy Wonder _on his mentor_ , for a change.

That’s not what it was whenever the boy spontaneously vanished, as he had on the roof before. That was just the way they worked. Robin was the distraction; Batman instigated fear and took down the target. On occasion – or during daylight – Robin was allowed to get a few punches in, of course, but he was trained to battle from a distance, blending in and out of the shadows almost better than the Dark Knight, leaping over heads and tripping bodies as he swoops past.

They’d been doing this so long now there was barely ever a need for words anymore. And Robin had _never_ disappeared on Batman before. He probably didn’t need to be told what would happen if ever he decided to.

“Okay, wait,” Robin says, just loud enough for Batman to hear, and the Dark Knight pauses with his grappling gun raised and ready to shoot another line.

They’re several blocks from the noisy club now and the only sounds that echo through the night is the traffic below, people shouting up and down the streets, little indistinct noises from apartments surrounding the area.

Robin is behind him, having only just landed.

Batman turns his head just enough for the boy to know he’s paying attention, and, as requested, is “waiting”.

“You _know_ where they’re making that and who’s behind it,” the Boy Wonder says, and it’s a statement not a question. Internally, Batman almost sighs. He’d been hoping Robin would let it go until they got home, at least. “Aren’t you worried more of it will pop up tonight? And tomorrow, and every day after if you don’t put a stop to it now? By morning everyone will know the Batman got to their deal and they’ll assume someone squealed. Because, y’know, you’re _Batman_ , so who wouldn’t?” he adds after a pause.

Batman turns halfway around, so Robin can see his face better. He’s debating whether he should admonish the boy aloud for arguing with his orders, or will the glare be enough?

Apparently it is, because Robin rolls his eyes again and waves his hand at his waist in a gesture that clearly states _I get it, but_ —

And Batman has to remind himself that Robin is fourteen now. But then, it’s only been twenty-seven days and, what’s the difference anyway?

Batman turns to face Robin properly, and he watches the boy with a critical eye – Robin’s thinking.

He’s contemplating his mentor’s motives, probably, judging by the way his forehead creases in a brow-furrowed frown, the way his lips tighten and twist. He scowls.

Batman considers what he must be thinking – whatever the package is, it’s important, dangerous, and more than anything, it’s unknown. Therefore, its origins must be important, and dangerous, and somewhat or mostly unknown as well.

It cannot have escaped Robin’s notice that Batman potentially knows _something_ about the people behind the – what is probably a – drug. More than what the dealer had divulged under duress.

He’s connecting the dots – whoever it is they’re too dangerous, or the – for lack of a better term so far – drug they’re working with, is too dangerous for Robin to be present when Batman raids their hideout and takes them out.

It frustrates him, that Batman wants to keep him from this, the Dark Knight can tell – it was in the scowl following him across rooftops, it’s in the tone of his voice as he makes his plea, it’s in the way his fingers twitch and the way they curl into a fist as he thinks about it.

But he doesn’t _say_ anything. Batman’s not entirely certain as to why, though he has a hunch.

Robin’s last display of disapproval regarding being kept out of the loop had been directed at Aqualad for keeping them in the dark about the mole – a somewhat childish and overly dramatic display.

Batman’s never been sure Robin really resented Aqualad for his omission, because heaven knows the Dark Knight has kept enough secrets from his protégé in the past for perfectly legitimate reasons the Boy Wonder should be semi-used to it by now.

If nothing else, he should know there are reasons for secrets. Sometimes they’re not very good, and sometimes they’re unreasonable, and sometimes they’re pointless, but they always exist and seem perfectly legit to whoever defends with them.

Batman theorizes if genuine resentment doesn’t factor all the way into it, his reaction to Aqualad’s secrecy was probably to test his abilities – in the face of controversy and resentment, to determine how their leader would step up to the plate, take control, and pull them back together as a team, proving his worth as a leader, and the necessity and credibility of his actions.

It’s a risky move, but Aqualad pulled through.

 _Or_ , and the Dark Knight does not dismiss the notion, he’s just giving his protégé too much credit.

In either case, he’s seemed to have learned those lessons now, because he does not immediately snap and protest at being left behind.

(Or maybe it’s just because he’s faced with Batman.)

Instead he considers, trying to find a compromise that saves the lives of innocents threatened by the existence and distribution of a drug being created as they speak, but without having him in the thick of it, so Batman gets his way too.

He’s coming to the same conclusion Batman had as they’d swept over buildings – they need to split up.

But Robin swallows hard and scowls even harder at the ground.

Batman knows what he’s thinking – he doesn’t want Batman going alone. Not under normal circumstances – no doubt he’d been conjuring up arguments for the past half hour that would convince Batman to take him along to bust the bad guys anyway – but even less under uncertain circumstances.

Batman may well know the culprits behind the drug, but he hasn’t tested it yet and he doesn’t know what it’s about, what its effects are or _if_ an antidote can be produced.

Robin finds himself conflicted, because there’s a danger they’re aware of and are capable of facing, but it’s too risky without knowing all the facts first and having all the information, which means they’re losing their lead and putting lives in danger, and Batman knows the boy doesn’t want to, but it’s a necessary sacrifice at this point.

Because they are, in fact, both a little selfish. Batman can’t allow Robin to come with him, not if he’s right about the “mastermind” behind this drug. And Robin can’t let Batman go by himself into uncharted waters, without knowing the drug and everything related to it – what if he gets injected by it? What if that’s the plan all along?

Meanwhile, innocent lives are undoubtedly at stake.

They need more information, true enough, but somewhere underneath it all that’s only an excuse while they’re really just trying to look out for each other.

It gnaws at his gut, however – his, and Robin’s, and his again because it bothers his ward.

Batman walks back across the roof towards the frowning little bird, his fingers at the clasp of a pocket on his utility belt. Not for the first time he’s deciding to argue against him – with a “batglare” and a scowl, and a message to Agent A to make it official – and give Robin the drug and send him home to analyse it.

There’s no telling how long that could take, just like there’s no telling how fast the drug is spreading across the streets, what it does – beyond the rumours, if they’re true at all – and what it would take to stop it.

Recon only then, the Batman decides, and it’s not the first time this thought has occurred to him either.

 _Robin_ is the problem, because he’ll argue or he’ll follow, or more likely both.

Lessons learned from the situation with Aqualad aside, he is still just a kid. A thirteen year old kid.

 _Fourteen_.

It shouldn’t be so hard to remember.

But then, it’s not that he forgets.

When he reaches the boy he has one of two choices – to put his hand on Robin’s shoulder, asking him if it’s time to go home, because by now, Robin’s weighed the situation and come to the Dark Knight’s conclusion… or, he hands Robin the drug and heads to the dealer’s location on his own.

Robin looks up at him just as he stops, and the Boy Wonder’s expression makes his mind up for him.

He slips the drug out of his pouch with two fingers and holds it out to his partner. “I’ll be back before morning.”

Robin’s eyes shift from the drug to his face and back again, and he swallows.

Batman barely blinks, “Recon only. I promise.”

“You were planning on doing this from the start, weren’t you?” Robin narrows his eyes, having finally figured it out.

Batman doesn’t reply, though.

“You were just going to drop me off at the cave first,” Robin continues, almost scathingly. “I’m not a kid anymore, Bats.”

Batman raises an eyebrow, moves his fingers, moving the package, and Robin’s eyes follow it.

Realisation dawns on him. Two fingers take hold of the little package, but Batman doesn’t let go of it just yet, waiting on Robin to speak.

“You trust me not to follow you…” he says quietly. “What made you change your mind?”

“You’re not a kid anymore,” Batman replies curtly, and lets the drug go.

Robin’s face splits into a tentative grin, but it lasts only a second before the moment is shattered by the silver knife flitting through the air.

Robin jumps back, as does Batman, but a yelp from the boy a second later has the Dark Knight running up to his partner in a heartbeat.

Gotham is a sea of artificial stars and, despite the late hour, there’s enough light to make Robin and the blood out clearly.

One knife is stuck in the concrete floor – a decoy to split them apart – whilst the other lays discarded after its fall, droplets of blood on it.

Robin holds one bloodied hand with the other, and the drug lays abandoned on the floor.

Batman wonders where the knife-thrower is – too far away for him to have heard them.

He barely takes three long strides in Robin’s direction, or the echo of indiscrete footsteps rings in his ears, fabric flapping to its own rhythm as the assailant approaches.

Another swish, low and threatening, and sounding nothing like a knife this time, cuts through the night, and Batman has to stop running to jump and dodge the sweeping attack instead – a scythe.

Batman twists his body mid-air, cape bellowing, as he plucks out three batarangs and flings them at his attacker in one smooth motion, landing clear of the offending scythe, but in the wrong position to help his bird.

The scythe-holder is tall, lean, and covered in a patchwork of fabric disguising nearly all of him and most of his face, but Batman doesn’t need much more than the weapon to know who it is – Scarecrow.

There’s a pause – long enough for Batman to glance half over his shoulder, where Robin is holding his own against none other than the Joker, freshly escaped from Arkham it seems. It must be a new record time.

The Boy Wonder quips, but Batman doesn’t hear what, and the Joker laughs because that’s what he does, but Robin doesn’t seem in trouble – yet.

The moment passes, and in the next, Scarecrow leaps forward with his scythe swinging and Batman meets him halfway, dodging to one side to miss the slicing weapon, and dropping low with a swooping leg to trip his opponent.

Scarecrow realises the move almost too late and ends up half jumping, half dancing from one foot to another and Batman’s attempt fails.

But the Dark Knight is on his feet in the same motion, blocking another swing of the scythe with one gauntlet, absorbing the impact and pushing the weapon back with as much strength as he needs. Free of the blade and Scarecrow wide open, Batman slings a fist at the man’s face.

It connects, and Scarecrow doubles over to the side with a groan, but despite the pain and Batman already moving to deliver another blow, Scarecrow is bringing his scythe back around.

Batman feints back to dodge it and Scarecrow comes erect, swinging haphazardly in quick succession, not quite caring what he’s aiming at it seems.

Batman moves, backwards, dodging swings left and right.

Six more batarangs make an appearance, directed at Scarecrow’s hands on the scythe, at the lengthy fabric of his trousers, meaning to pin him down, or the dangling fabric about the rest of his body, intent on cutting through and slicing mostly harmlessly through flesh if that’s what it takes.

But Scarecrow’s surprisingly fast and adept at dodging several of the bat-shaped weapons. His hands move up and down the shaft of the scythe, making them difficult targets, and his frame seems thinner than before because the last of the stray batarangs slice through nothing but hanging fabric around his mid-section.

Batman scowls viciously, and jumps backwards, out of the way of an otherwise deadly swoop of Scarecrow’s scythe. He wonders when the man had gotten so good at playing with that thing.

Joker laughs somewhere just outside the corner of his eye and it’s as maniacal a cackle as ever before, filled with ambiguity because it doesn’t tell Batman anything about Robin.

Scarecrow’s scythe comes down, but it’s too far to strike him, and the sharp end sings against the roof floor instead.

Robin’s laughter catches the Dark Knight’s ears then, and mentally he sighs with relief – because it’s not insane and Joker-poisoned, and it’s followed by another smartass retort from the Boy Wonder.

Scarecrow’s scythe comes up, and stuck to the tip is the drug Robin had dropped.

Batman scowls at not having noticed, and, being just too far away, he lets loose a set of batarangs through the air to do the job for him.

One slices at the wooden shaft, but doesn’t cut through, and Batman’s running forward in the wake of his weapons anyway. The other nips at the blade’s tip, but slices at the package at the same moment Scarecrow pulls back on the scythe to retrieve his prize, and Batman has practically reached them.

“Batman!” Robin’s voice and he catches a glimpse of the boy from somewhere over Scarecrow’s shoulder. Joker is out of sight.

Then his vision is obscured by the powdery brown-green substance of the drug as it falls from the thin plastic keeping it together, torn apart by steel.

Batman inhales only the smallest of whiffs before he resolves to stop breathing, but, the powder is thick in his nose and it burns, and feels like it’s cutting off all his air, and he needs to breathe, so he does—

There are bats, suddenly, crowding his vision.

He’s not running anymore, he thinks. Those might be his hands clutching at his head, or it might be their tiny little feet scraping at his cowl, trying to burrow their way through, through his skull, into his brain—

There’s a fierce tug at his waist, a little jolt of electricity that he barely feels and can’t be sure exists, just as something snaps and he feels quite suddenly helpless.

“Batman!” Robin’s voice cuts into the screeches, the insane laughter of the bats. The bats. The bats are everywhere.

Where is he? In the well? He squints. Bricks? It’s all too dark to tell, but… the well? _The damn well_?!

Wasn’t he over this, hadn’t he conquered that fear?

“Batman, stop moving! Calm down! Listen to me—”

Robin’s face flickers in and out of his bat-filled vision; he’s in an alleyway—

“—let go—”

A low growl rumbles in the back of his throat, feral and territorial, because Robin’s not alone.

“—Batman—”

A gunshot. And it startles him more than it should, so he stumbles, backwards, and there are bats fluttering up in front of him. He raises his arms to shield himself, his balance falters, his leg hitting something behind him – the parapet?

“Batman!”

Dick is falling. No, his parents. No – _his_ parents.

He topples over the low wall, and he’s the one falling – bat’s screeching, flying upwards out of the well.

_“No…!”_

Someone laughs hysterically.

Wind whips past his face. Something wraps around him as he falls, brushing past his arms, his legs…

The bats. The bats are laughing, but growing dimmer, and then they merge into darkness and he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the date here you can surmise this fic takes place during Season 1, after episode 24 (but before episode 25).


	18. Fearless 9: Part2 ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 27 Jan 2014.

**{unrecognized}**

**Part Two: Red Arrow.**

**Chapter Two.**

He came awake slowly, sluggishly, and confused, not remembering having…fell asleep? Slipped into a coma? Been drugged? Ugh, he had no idea.

In any case, his head was throbbing and his throat was dry, and, touching his fingers to his cheek, he found a small band-aid stuck there.

He groaned, remembering Cheshire’s kunai zipping past his face, nicking his cheek. He’d tracked her and confronted her about the Team – his _friends_ – and what she and the Shadows, and Sportsmaster, had done with them.

He might have gotten something out of her too, if it hadn’t been for GA.

Roy clenched the sheets at his sides in his balled up hands, scowling through his mask at the white ceiling.

The air smelled vaguely of…well, it very much reminded him of a hospital. He frowned, and then it struck him—

_Green Arrow._

He bolted upright, a wave of nausea following him, and the throbbing in his head increasing tenfold. Tempted to lie back down, he stubbornly ignored the urge and swung his feet off the bed he was on.

The Cave’s Med-bay, that’s where he was, and, he was all alone. Where had they taken Oliver?

Taking a steadying breath, Roy raised one hand to his throbbing head and closed his eyes, leaning into his palm, trying to remember exactly what had happened.

Blood. There had been _so much blood_. He could still remember the _smell_. He’d been trying, a little too frantically, he loathed to admit, to stop the bleeding, or something, he could hardly remember all his training, and then—

He must have…just fainted? Blacked out from all the stress, and pressure, and panic, and… _fear_.

_Oliver._

The rest of the Team, or the League, must have found them, and brought them back to the Cave.

Roy lowered his hand carefully, and opened his eyes to look at it, but there was no blood.

Someone had taken off his gloves and washed his hands. He was still wearing his self-made Red Arrow uniform, though, and across the red fabric were smears of crimson in splatters and fingerprints.

He swallowed, feeling sick again.

He was alone in the Med-Bay; he glanced at the rest of the room – so _where_ was GA?

Had they taken him to the Watchtower? Was he in an actual hospital? On an operating table with his guts spilt as they pulled bullets from his flesh with tweezers? Or…was he in a morgue somewhere?

Red Arrow buried his head in his hands and shut his eyes _tight_ , breathing deeply before he could start crying like a little _kid_.

Sure, he and Oliver didn’t get along on the best of days, but, that by no means meant he wanted the man _dead_. They were… _family_ , after all.

But, what were the chances…? What were the chances Oliver was still alive? How long had he been bleeding out before their comrades had found them? How long had Roy been at the Cave and GA in the League’s care? How much time was enough – had there been too much, too little? He…

Roy swallowed, clenched his fists and looked up.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, that wouldn’t help. He needed to find someone. Get some real answers.

He hopped off the cot, shaking off some dizziness from being upright again, and turned to the doorway in time to see a flash of blonde disappear from view. Artemis?

He grit his teeth, clenched his fists and marched determinedly out the door and down the corridor – no one in sight, but it didn’t matter, he’d come across someone eventually.

Most likely they were in the common room, or mission briefing—

He hadn’t bothered with the Team’s little tour of the Cave upon joining them, despite Wally’s enthusiastic insistence, since he didn’t spend that much time here anyway. However, as such, he was less familiar with the layout than he should have been.

He wandered without direction for too long, down corridors and around corners until he finally came across an almost familiar-looking hallway.

“Any word yet?” that sounded vaguely like Red Tornado.

“No.” Bats.

Roy turned down the first left and found himself in the common room and kitchen area, Batman’s dark cape disappearing down the corridor across the room.

He picked up the pace, jogging through the room and rushing down the corridor only to find he’d lost the pair. Undiscouraged, he trudged down the way anyhow, rounding another corner to enter the mission briefing area.

Batman stood next to the zeta-tubes, typing away at a holographic keyboard, bringing up screens of information, whilst the circular doorway to Red Tornado’s apartment overhead, shut with an audible _whirr_ of electronics.

Red Arrow approached, keeping the annoyed look he’d acquired down the halls on his face. It had more been annoyance with himself than anything else – for not having taken the dumb tour, and getting himself lost.

If Wally were around, he’d be rubbing it in.

But of course, the speedster _wasn’t_ around, because he was missing – _kidnapped_. And there was Batman, still doing practically nothing about it.

Red Arrow had half expected the Dark Knight to be out on the streets, scouring every city within a thousand mile radius, just to be safe, for his precious little bird. But apparently, Robin wasn’t as precious as he’d thought.

“How are you feeling?” Batman’s casual inquiry stopped Roy in his tracks a few feet behind the cowled vigilante.

Of course he hadn’t actually been expecting he could sneak up on the Dark Knight – that would have been stupid. He did, however, not expect Batman to enquire after his health when it was obviously fine and the last thing they needed to worry about.

“What happened to Green Arrow?” he demanded, the annoyance shifting from his needlessly complicated excursion to the Bat’s calm exterior. It was unnerving, always had been. Still Robin always insisted there was more to Batman than the frigid, unperturbed surface. Roy couldn’t see it.

Batman stopped typing, turning towards him slightly – just enough that Roy could see part of his face.

“He’s safe.”

Of course, Roy had never had to deal much with the Bat before. Not directly, like now, anyway. That was more Oliver’s fate.

His automatic discomfort around Batman was on account of preconceived notions based on rumours and Ollie’s fervent passion for complaint, in addition to second-hand experience, _observation_ , of others dealing with the Dark Knight.

Everyone seemed to wince a little at his gaze.

Batman turned around to his computer again and Roy shot the back of his head a glare. The vagueness of being a Bat.

“But _how is he?_ Is he—” Alive? Dead? Still severely injured? Maimed? Crippled? _What?_

“We won’t know for a few hours yet,” Batman said patiently, which made Roy’s fingers twitch, itching for a bow. A patient Batman meant about as good as an _im_ patient one. It was all context and circumstance, and in this instance, none of the aforementioned was good.

Finally, Batman’s computer vanished and he turned to face Roy, whose glare was largely subdued under the Bat’s own fierce gaze. He’d never looked at Roy quite like _that_ before.

No wonder he lived in _Gotham_. It would take no less than a glare like that to strike fear into the hearts of _those_ criminals.

But, Roy had to actually remind himself, _he_ wasn’t a criminal. And neither had he done anything wrong, or worthy of the infamous Batglare.

So, after a moment’s uncertainty, he set his jaw and stared right back.

“Explain what happened,” Batman said sternly, all the pleasantries from before drained from his tone.

“I was following a lead—”

“Cheshire,” Batman stated more than asked, even before Red Arrow had finished his sentence properly. “And _how_ did that work out for you?”

Roy scowled. At least Ollie was still _alive_ , if fighting to stay that way by the sound of things. He could be stubborn, too; he wouldn’t die on Roy. He was still too convinced they could patch things up entirely, and if – _when_ – Roy joined the League, everything would be _just peachy_ again.

“At least I’ve been _trying_!” Roy snapped. “You and the League – the _‘Team’_ – haven’t been trying to find them at all! And here I thought you of all people would—”

“Batman!” Artemis came rushing into the room, cutting off Roy’s little rant, and in hindsight, it was probably a good thing. Batman’s glare had turned increasingly dangerous at what Roy had been about to suggest. “Red Arrow’s—” Artemis stopped short at the sight of him. She relaxed, crossed her arms and glared at him, too. “Oh. Never mind.”

And then she didn’t leave.

“So,” she said instead, her tone dripping with venomous sarcasm. “How _helpful_ was Cheshire before Sportsmaster nearly _killed_ Green Arrow?”

Roy’s nails dug into his skin, a dreadful pit of guilt making itself cosy in his stomach.

“I think Aqualad tried to escape,” he said through grit teeth, recalling Sportsmaster’s words. “He got caught.”

Batman’s eyes seemed to narrow even more if that were possible, and Artemis looked none too friendly herself, but neither of them spoke. Neither had much chance to anyway, a screen popping up just behind Batman to interrupt their conversation.

 _“Miss M—to the Cave,”_ the Martian’s static-filled voice rang through the room, but there was no coherent image on the screen. _“Batm—n?”_

“Report,” he said, turning at once to face the screen.

Chaotically, the static on-screen buzzed into the vague form of Martian Manhunter’s niece, but she kept flickering in and out of focus.

Artemis had hurried closer to Batman and the screen, but Roy’s feet wouldn’t move.

“Think we might h—foun—em,” the green girl was saying, and Roy’s heart skipped a beat. Found them? Found the rest of the Team?

She was still trying to say something else, sounding like she mentioned Superboy, but Batman cut her off impatiently, “Coordinates. _Now._ ”

Her snowy head nodded eagerly, having heard the orders.

Batman barked a hasty “Received” a moment later, checking his computer, and Miss Martian’s transmission winked out of existence.

The Dark Knight turned to the zeta-tubes, ready and eager to beam away.

Roy stared in disbelief – they’d had a plan after all? The potential moles had been sent somewhere to find his friends, and Batman had ‘neglected’ to tell Red Arrow? Oliver had…?

Or, was this a trap by the Martian and the clone and…whoever else was out there looking for his friends _without him_.

“Batman—?” Artemis started, but he shook his head at her.

“Stay with Green Arrow,” he said quietly, and Roy recoiled again – GA was _here_?!

_Priorities._

“Wait!” he said urgently, rushing over even as he spoke, “Let me come with you. I just need my bow and arrow—”

“Computer,” Batman said, ignoring him it seemed. “Batman 02 Override. Lockdown Red Arrow B-06.”

“Wh-what?!” Roy exclaimed.

 _Acknowledge_ , chimed the computer’s voice. _Red Arrow B-06. Unrecognized._

“I suggest you don’t try to leave,” Batman said over his shoulder. “We’ll discuss your actions when I return.”

_Recognized: Batman 02._

“You can’t do this!” Roy snapped, even as Batman disappeared in a flash of yellow light.

Batman disappeared, and there was silence. It weighed heavy on Roy’s shoulders.

He spun his glare on Artemis, “Take me to Green Arrow!”

She glared at him, her lips pursed into a thin line and her nails digging into the bare skin of her arms. “Not a chance. It’s _your_ fault he’s—” she stopped short, her eyes locking onto something behind him.

Frowning, Roy looked over his shoulder.

His lips parted in a little gasp of surprise, and a chill ran down his spine. He hadn’t expected to see her. But only because he hadn’t thought Oliver was _here_.

His heart sunk down to his soles, Artemis’s unspoken words flitting through his mind.

“I’ll leave you to talk,” Artemis mumbled, and Roy looked around to see her march from the room at no slow pace.

He turned properly back, to face Dinah.

Her blue eyes were frigid, her arms crossed and her lips a thin line.

Maybe that’s where Artemis had picked up the pose.

Ugh – now was not the time to make jokes.

Dinah looked…like she was about to cry – and not the tearful kind of cry, either.

Red Arrow swallowed. Hard.


	19. Fearless 10: Part3 ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 2 Feb 2014.

**{blood}**

**Part Three: Aqualad.**

**Chapter Two.**

Batman was there without Kaldur having heard the computer announce him, ushering Roy impatiently away so he could slip Aquaman’s free arm around his shoulders.

Kaldur was still clutching his king’s hand with both of his own, staring dumbfounded, disbelieving, when Batman touched a black gloved hand to his shoulder.

“Let go, Aqualad,” the Dark Knight said quietly, surprisingly gentle, but it took a tight squeeze to his shoulder for Kaldur to snap from his reverie and look at Batman. “I have him. He’ll be fine. But you have to let me take him.”

Nodding, though he didn’t quite register what he was agreeing to, Kaldur let go of King Orin’s hand, setting it down with care.

Wally, his face ashen and his hands covered in blood, drew back from Aquaman’s wound as Batman swooped up Kaldur’s king in his strong arms and rushed off, dark cape fluttering.

Wally had gotten to his feet, was staring at his bloodied hands, and Kaldur was vaguely aware of him muttering, “I’m gonna be sick,” before a whistle of wind announced the speedster’s departure.

Robin’s small hand squeezed Kaldur’s shoulder as he said, “Don’t worry, Kal. We’ll figure this out,” before his footsteps sounded about the room, disappearing down the hall in an echo reminiscent of his ominous cackle.

“Come on,” Roy said, bending down to grasp Kaldur with one hand on his shoulder, the other holding fast to his arm. “You can’t stay on the floor.”

Kaldur barely heard. King Orin’s blood had pooled onto the floor in a brilliant crimson that seemed to be staring up at him, large droplets in splatters creating a trail in Batman and Wally’s wake, calling for him to follow.

He’d believed that to be his king’s last breath, exhaled with an anxious plea, _“You must save the queen.”_

If Batman could not manage to save King Orin, rule of the kingdom would transfer to his younger brother, Prince Orm, until the queen’s child and rightful heir was old enough to bear the responsibility.

Unless neither the queen nor her son survived whatever was attacking the kingdom.

Aqualad was not so prideful as to think he was the _only_ one who could save the queen, or make a difference in the attack, but… Atlantis was his _home_. He was needed, and none of his surface dwelling friends, or the Justice League, could very well help him – help the kingdom.

Save for Superboy and M’gann, but… he did not feel eager to put their lives in danger when he was not even sure what the danger was. Perhaps it was better to do it by himself, then.

Seeing his king in such a state, however, had left Kaldur’s limbs feeling weak and numb, and he offered no resistance when Roy pulled him to his feet. It felt like a miracle to be able to stand at all.

“What happened?” M’gann’s voice, a high pitch of fearfulness, sounded just behind him. She must have flown in and he had not even noticed. “Superboy’s helping Batman carry Aquaman to the Med Bay, I—” she cut herself off, perhaps at a look from one of their teammates, if she hadn’t just sensed the mood in the room. Kaldur’s eyes were still on the floor.

His Water Bearers were in his quarters, which he kept whenever he spent a casual day or two at the Cave, with no pre-scheduled missions and plenty of downtime to spend with the Team.

Ordinarily he might don them with his uniform despite the downtime, or he would spend said downtime practicing his skills in the ocean, but since his break from the waves and his land dweller desire to lie down on a couch, the Water Bearers had been a nuisance he’d left behind for the day.

He could always fetch them if a mission, or training, arose.

It seemed such an irresponsible thing to have done, in hindsight.

“I could sense his mind – he _is_ still alive,” M’gann was still speaking, gently, and, with a blink, Kaldur realized she’d come to stand beside him, was half-smiling up at his face.

“Th-Thank you, M’gann,” Kaldur stuttered, finding his voice from within some unknown place. As much as standing had surprised him, talking did even more so.

He did not consider himself _strong_ by any particular measure; though he was certainly not weak, he would give himself that. However, Kaldur had always feared that if such a situation ever came about – his homeland under siege and he not there to defend it, while their beloved king clung to life by a thread – he would be too distraught to _act_ at all.

Perhaps it was the presence of his Team – M’gann’s smiling face, Roy’s hand on his shoulder, Batman and Robin tending to his king, Artemis and Wally with their supportive contributions – that gave him some manner of strength.

He was their leader. They looked to him for an example of how to face controversy, misfortune, attack. He needed to set that example.

He knew exactly what he must do.

“I am certain Batman is doing all he can,” Kaldur said, allowing some of his newfound strength to seep into his tone, to set his Team at ease. “And that it will undoubtedly help.”

M’gann smiled hopefully at him, but glanced at Artemis and Roy as though imploring them to say something as well. Perhaps she _was_ asking, keeping him out of a mental loop.

Artemis stepped forward a little as she took the floor, “In the meantime, we can’t do much more than wait… we should sit down in the living room for a while. Catch our bearings. This… can’t be easy for you,” she mumbled that last, almost in a rush, looking immensely uncomfortable.

Kaldur decided to spare her and ignored it, nodding in agreement rather, before he turned around and allowed his teammates to escort him to the living room.

M’gann tentatively returned to her cooking in the kitchen, silently glancing at them every ten seconds. Artemis fussed over her dishevelled hair and her sweaty t-shirt, until Roy waved her off impatiently and she excused herself to go take a shower.

Roy and Kaldur ended up in awkward silence, standing between the island in the kitchen and the closest living room couch, having an uncomfortable stare-down.

Kaldur suspected Roy knew exactly what he was planning to do, and either wanted to tell him to go ahead, or was trying to find the words to talk him out of it with, but not knowing how to start either argument and not certain if he should.

Kaldur watched him impatiently, arms crossed, acutely aware of how much time was slipping by while he waited for his best friend to either support him or oppose him.

After what felt like a mild eternity, Roy nodded stiffly. “Hey. Martian…Girl,” he said uncertainly in M’gann’s direction, looking over at her.

M’gann started at being so unexpectedly addressed. The deep crease in her forehead from when she’d been frowning intensely at the bowl in her hand quickly eased out as her eyebrow’s shot up in questioning surprise. “It’s, er, _Miss_ Martian,” she corrected kindly, smiling at Roy.

The archer gave her a deadpan look, “Sure. Come with me.”

Kaldur arched an eyebrow, with his back mostly to M’gann, she wouldn’t be able to quite make out his inquiring expression, which, to his dismay, Roy elected to ignore for the most part.

The former sidekick casually waved a hand at Kaldur whilst at the same time making it look like a “come on already”-gesture at M’gann, as he passed between them, headed for the door.

“Er, sorry?” M’gann was saying, eyeing him as he walked. “Where are we going?”

Kaldur was curious to that himself, and had conveyed with his expression the question as to _what_ Roy was going to offer the Martian as explanation for their sudden departure. He didn’t think Roy had thought that far, though.

Arms still crossed, face carefully neutral now, Kaldur’ahm turned around to better survey his teammates. Roy had stopped walking long enough to look over his shoulder and give M’gann a very _pointed_ look. It was almost too difficult to tell with the sunglasses on, but Kaldur could have sworn Roy had glanced at him swiftly. Likely, he was communicating telepathically with M’gann.

The Martian girl’s lips opened into a perfect little ‘o’ after a second, and, after a sympathetic smile at Kaldur and an almost mumbled, “We’ll, er, be right down the hall if you need us,” she floated from the kitchen area and out the room.

Roy shot Kaldur a smirk and a thumbs-up before he trudged after the Martian.

Kaldur surmised his best guess was Roy had suggested they leave him with his thoughts for a while. Some solitude in which to ponder over past events, without the weight of everyone’s sympathy and concerned glances distracting him.

A small, grateful smile found its way onto the sixteen year old’s lips. He had a good surface friend.

However, it was the submerged friends that needed him now.

Trusting that Roy had led their alien companion away from the bedrooms, Kaldur’ahm made his way to his quarters, strapped on his Water Bearers, and headed back to the zeta tubes within minutes.

He allowed himself an intake of breath, to quell the apprehension growing in his belly, before he entered his desired destination on the computer: Poseidonis, Atlantis.

He’d barely stepped up to the zeta beam, or its companion beside him lit up with yellow light.

_Recognized: Black Canary 13_

_Recognized: Martian Manhunter 07_

The computer was already scanning him as they stepped out of the zeta tube—

_Recognized: Aqualad B-02_

“Kaldur,” Black Canary admonished at once, “Where do you think you are going? Superman is already—”

“I am sorry,” Kaldur cut her off. “But Atlantis needs me.”

With that, he was gone from the Mountain.

 

* * *

 

Explosions rocked the bottom of the sea, tearing deep fissures across the surface. Buildings in the distance cracked, broke, and fell towards the ocean bottom, rising dust within their wake, leaving bodies crushed beneath their weight.

Atlanteans swam, soldiers fought, to defend, to protect, to drive the enemy away, and, for one heart stopping moment, Kaldur paused, gasping at the scene before him.

They were not Ocean Master’s minions, or manta men with their insect-like black helmets, all working for his king’s enemies. Neither Ocean Master nor Black Manta themselves were anywhere in sight, either.

No, it was much more heart-shattering than that.

Atlanteans.

They were _all_ Atlantean’s, fighting against one another. Fiercely, rage burning deep within their eyes, not a trace of remorse to be seen there.

Civil War.

Atlantis was in the midst of a Civil War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between this chapter and the next, I took a break from this fic to write _What Kind of Jerk Would I be_ for Valentine's.


	20. Fearless 11: Part3 ch3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 25 Feb 2014.

**{electricity}**

**Part Three: Aqualad.**

**Chapter Three.**

_Recognized: Aqualad B-02._

Nervously anticipating an attack, but certainly not _afraid_ of what he might find, Aqualad emerged from the zeta tube’s yellow light with his water bearers drawn and his senses alert.

To his surprise, however, there was no one around. The zeta tube room was entirely devoid of people. Somewhat disconcerted by this discovery, having expected some sort of armada lying in wait for him, Kaldur swam as swiftly as he dared without neglecting caution.

He needed to find the queen and protect her. Thoughts of Ocean Master having kidnapped her again – or worse, infiltrating the citadel and keeping her prisoner in her own home, driving out the guards and the king – filled his mind. Ocean Master and Aquaman were fairly well-matched in a physical fight – but, of course, Ocean Master often cheated.

Aqualad shook his head, before he could envision his mentor blood-soaked on the cave’s floor, barely breathing if at all. He was in Batman’s hands now, and Kaldur had no choice but to trust he would be alright. It would not do for him to save the queen, only to bring her to a dying or – Poseidon forbid – _already dead_ husband.

But the Atlantean had barely made it several paces from the tube or an explosion sounded just behind him, shaking the ocean floor.

With a cry, the force of the blast had pushed Kaldur forward, knocking him into a pillar. He bumped his head, but hardly felt it, regaining his bearings and spinning around as fast as he could manage, weapons raised and tattoos glowing.

As the dust and sounds of breaking and falling rock settled, Kaldur perceived the zeta tube in ruins before him, with no way of using it to reach the surface any longer. _The only way left now is the long way_ , he lamented. This made his task much more difficult, but he did not linger on the thought, aware that whoever had blown up the zeta tube must still be nearby.

Cautiously, Kaldur circled the room, sparing some few minutes for superficial inspection of the ruins, convinced he had no real time for it. But, one way or another, he found nothing of significance and no one else in the vicinity either. _A remote detonator, then?_ It seemed a reasonable enough conclusion, but raised the suspicion that whoever set it off was waiting outside for him – perhaps ready to ambush.

He proceeded as quickly as he could, maintaining an air of caution even as he wished for nothing more but to rush forward and find his queen, to keep her and the heir safe as his king required of him.

Reflecting as he left the debris behind, Aqualad realized whoever had planned the attack on the city must not have thought it through particularly well. He was not assuming them incompetent in the least, he was not so naïve, but he _did_ question their methods.

They had left the zeta tubes mostly unguarded, and had waited to blow it up until _after_ the king had managed to escape and send word to the Justice League – longer _still_ , until Aqualad had returned.

The possibility arose that they – whoever ‘ _they_ ’ were – had no knowledge of Aquaman’s escape, having had no time to rig the zeta tube with explosives until very recently.

For all Kaldur knew, his enemy had no knowledge of his arrival either, having planted the bomb and cleared the area not expecting any arrivals

Moreover, they either had no knowledge of how to shut the zeta tube down technologically, or were smart enough to assume such an act would immediately alert the Justice League that something was amiss in Atlantis. Kaldur could only assume whatever attack was being waged upon his homeland, there had been no desire for word of it to reach the surface.

 _You have come through for Atlantis, my king. I will do_ all _I can to ensure we prevail against this evil that has targeted us._

Potentially, following this logic thus, there would be no ambush waiting for him. On the other hand, the enemy might well have _allowed_ Annhax Orin to ‘escape’, Kaldur mentally argued, luring the king’s young protégé into a trap.

Having no proof to substantiate either or any other theory, Kaldur kept his weapons drawn and his magic fuelled, on the brim of use the _instant_ it became needed, as he navigated through hallways and down corridors towards the exit.

Finally he could see the outside, pillars on either side of him creating a makeshift pathway away from the zeta tube area, leading into the city, close enough to the palace that an escape to the zeta tube would be easy, without allowing an attack from there on the citadel. It was placed complexly, but effectively.

As he made his way into clearer water, cresting a ridge that allowed a partial view of the city, more expected sounds than the silence he’d been faced with, reached Kaldur’s ears.

The clang of weapons, the exclamations of attack, filled the ocean-waters, and while it was not the first time Aqualad had heard Poseidonis echo with these cries, it did not hurt any less to hear his beloved city writhe in such turmoil.

Explosions rocked the bottom of the sea, tearing deep fissures across the surface. Buildings in the distance cracked, broke, and fell towards the ocean bottom, rising dust within their wake, leaving bodies crushed beneath their weight.

Atlanteans swam, soldiers fought, to defend, to protect, to drive the enemy away, and, for one heart stopping moment, Kaldur paused, gasping at the scene before him.

They were not Ocean Master’s minions, or manta men with their insect-like black helmets, all working for his king’s enemies. Neither Ocean Master nor Black Manta themselves were anywhere in sight, either.

No, it was much more heart-shattering than that.

Atlanteans.

They were _all_ Atlantean’s, fighting against one another. Fiercely, rage burning deep within their eyes, not a trace of remorse to be seen there.

Civil War.

Atlantis was in the midst of a Civil War.

At first, Kaldur could manage nothing more than staring, unseeingly, at the spectacle before him – weapons drawn, his countrymen charged haphazardly at each other, aiming not to hurt or cripple, but to _kill_. Battles were everywhere – groups of citizens ganging up on each other, the weaker ones perishing under the strength of those who outnumbered them, leaving behind nothing more but a spill of red tainting clear ocean waters.

There were no formations, no rigid defences, no solid plans Kaldur could make out amongst the fighting bodies. He did, however, notice at once who was fighting whom – purists and ‘impurists’, and whoever of the opposite group opposing ‘their own’.

Kaldur tightened his fingers around his water bearers. He could not tell which side had instigated the attack, nor could he discern whether the unorganized appearance of it all had not perhaps been part of some plan, after all – catching the opposing group off guard.

Mentally, he scowled at himself for thinking of them – his fellow Atlanteans, who, for all their differences, were still all the same people – as one group versus another. It was not the way he had ever seen them, and he could not understand why they still thought of themselves as such. He had thought it was Ocean Master’s influence that had turned the different Atlantean species against each other, and his – and his teammates and friends’ – interference, had swayed the public to a different opinion.

Apparently not.

Was Ocean master still sowing this same seed of discord among the people somewhere? Was he responsible after all – to the same purpose as before, perhaps?

Kaldur reminded himself urgently – he _needed_ to find the queen. The people needed some symbol of authority, and with the king—

 _My king…_ with horrid dread he realized – _did the people do that to you, my king?! How-how_ dare _they! Have we sunk this low?!_

An unfamiliar surge of rage filling his veins, Kaldur swam forward unthinking, Atlantean magic soaking up water through his bearers, creating long whips of glowing pale blue.

 _I shall teach them_ , he thought fiercely. He would challenge them; force them to see reason, _somehow_. He would pull them apart, make them see the futility of their fight – _We are_ all of us _Atlanteans! Why do you do this?!_

He fell into the fray, whips of water encircling citizens at random, pulling them away from one another as he swung his weapons, depositing his fellow Atlanteans somewhat harshly away from each other, sending them crashing into the ocean bottom, against cliff sides, rubble-covered surfaces and scattered debris.

“What are you _doing_?!” he cried, desperately, as he swam overhead, snatching at citizens as far as he went, throwing them heedlessly away from each other, somehow oblivious to their yelps and cries. “ _What_ are you doing?!”

Tears had sprung unbidden to the backs of his eyes, but they were unseen in the water when they finally slipped free.

Gasping for air, dust rising all around him, his people cowering in fear below, Kaldur’ahm floated above the city streets, glaring at the fights still ahead and around him. His tattoos blazed with blue as the magic surged through him, desperate to be released, to make things better – _somehow_. There _had_ to be away.

“Aarrrghhh!!!” he raised his water bearers over his head, creating waves in their wake, the water building all around him, glowing as the magic coursed through it. He would unleash it upon the city, settle everyone down, force them to leave each other be, to notice him, to listen, to obey, to stop this madness—

And then, unexpectedly, water pushed against him from behind, shattering his concentration as it enveloped him – a wave controlled by someone else’s sorcerous powers. As the water flowed against him, driven by this unnatural force, a pulse of electricity burned through his clothes, traced his skin, prickling at his nerves, his senses, at every spot the water touched.

Electricity flitting across his flesh, Kaldur shook, convulsions taking hold of his body.

His fists sprang open at once, releasing his water bearers, the magical waves they had commanded a moment ago having long since subsided. His jaw dropped, an ear-splitting cry escaping from his lips. For a moment, his vision turned bright white, then deep black before he sunk feebly to the ocean floor, a fuzzy sight in front of his eyes.

Breath heavy, twitching, but somehow still able to move only _just_ , Kaldur struggled, fighting feebly against the threatening numbness, heaviness of his limbs, as he tried to turn about, to see his attacker.

She was small, petite-looking, and indiscernible through his hazy vision, but though there seemed to be three of her criss-crossing each other, each one’s outline not altogether there, and the entire picture littered with shifting black blotches, Kaldur could, to his own disbelief, still recognize that posture.

“…T… _Tula_ …?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so many ideas for Aqualad's part of the story. I remember I'd been pretty excited about all my little twists and turns :P


	21. Fearless 12: Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 4 March 2014.

**{addlebrained}**

**Interlude: Batman.**

Fear-filled, incoherent thoughts flitted across his mind, indiscernible, distorted images of Robin, mangled, broken, bruised – _crying_.

Snarling, Bruce pressed down harder on the gas, sending the batmobile into a quicksilver sped down the road, Bruce’s expert reflexes manoeuvring the vehicle left and right of oncoming traffic, around corners, across side-walks, narrowly avoiding pedestrians. Ugh – he didn’t _care_. This was the quickest way to get where he was going and he didn’t have any more _time_ as it was.

Robin… _Dick_ – needed him. He had to get there. He had to get there _in time_ , before the kid did something stupid and regrettable, or _worse_ – got himself _killed_.

An unexpected wetness enveloped his eyes at the thought and he blinked quickly.

Who’d have thought the small, still somewhat shy boy would have dug such a deep hole in his heart, snuggling there comfortably, wrapped in the black Bat’s cape like it had been _made for him_ , like it had just been _waiting_ for him – the little space in Bruce’s heart the boy now suddenly occupied, not the metaphorical cape.

_Ugh, but even that—_

Bruce’s instincts had already discerned that, with proper training, a lot of hard work and determination, and the boy’s over-zealous enthusiasm for the task, he would make a _fine_ vigilante.

Idly he realized the kid would need a name – _Not ‘batboy’._ Of course, there would be no name if Bruce got there too late. If _Batman_ got there too late.

 _If only he’d_ listened _to me. He’s not ready for this – not_ yet _._

But Dick Grayson, as smart as he was, for all that he grew up in a traveling circus, had navigated Batman’s computer with relative ease, discovering the secret Bruce had been so determined to keep from him for a while yet, and had grabbed a cowl and gone. He didn’t even have a proper mask of his own yet – Bruce was still debating whether or not to get him one… Giving the boy this chance, Bruce had no doubt, was what he _needed_. But there were limits.

Allowing him to go off on his own to implement whatever form of justice he thought was fitting – and, as befit a child as young as he, it was a rather warped, emotional version Bruce had been meaning to guide him carefully _away_ from – had never been part of the plan. He hadn’t foreseen it though, and he _should have_.

Dick was too smart for his own good. Or Bruce’s – _Batman’s_ – for that matter.

Scant minutes had passed by the time the cowled vigilante parked the batmobile in front of a high-rise, not bothering to obey any rules of the road as he did, and though the time was so short, it had felt like hours. Hours filled with worry and despair, and thinking the _absolute_ worst.

He emerged from the car, cape swishing, his eyes focussed on the roof of the building, trying to find shapes in the darkness – he was there, he knew he was, he could _feel_ it.

And then, through narrow, calculating eyes, he spotted the figure approaching the edge of the roof – no _, two_ , one much smaller than the other, held aloft by the front of his shirt...

No. No, not his shirt – his _neck_.

With a snarl, Batman whipped out a batarang with one hand and his grapple with the other, intent on cutting Robin’s—Dick’s… _Dick’s_ assailant with the weapon, and catching the boy as he subsequently fell, but—

Batman had barely moved or the boy was practically _tossed_ over the edge of the roof, instead of being dangled there as Bruce had been expecting, and, for half a second, the billionaire could do nothing but stare, wide-eyed, fear-stricken—

His ward’s small frame was entirely limp, the kid making no attempt whatsoever at reaching for a line – _surely he’d taken one_ – or grasping for a fire-escape railing. He made no sound even, no fearful cries of falling.

_No. No. No, no, no…!_

A heartbeat later Batman had discarded the batarang and shot a line from his grapple, the device already reeling the Dark Knight upwards even as the line secured tightly around a railing overhead.

He caught Dick effortlessly; unable to restrain the hiss of breath through his clenched teeth as he felt the lifeless weight in his arm.

Vaulting over the railing with further ease, he knelt down on the platform supporting his ward’s limp form with one arm wrapped protectively about the boy’s shoulders, the other already slipping the over-sized cowl off his head.

 _Dick… Dick… Dick… Dickie…_ “Dick… D-Dick?” the mantra running through his thoughts had slipped past his lips without the billionaire realising. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that was still all paranoid bat was trying in vain to berate him for not only saying the boy’s name aloud, but for having pulled off his only disguise, as well. The kid was in nothing but pyjamas and an oversized sweatshirt for heaven’s sake!

His mother’s, Bruce realised distantly.

“ _Dick_? Dickie, wake up,” he said urgently, cupping the boy’s face with his free hand, the other still clinging to the child, realising anew how small and fragile he seemed.  _What was I thinking? What was I thinking taking you in?_

Dick didn’t respond, though. Despite the darkness, Bruce could see deep and sickening blue and purple fingerprints encircling the boy’s neck, mocking him – _where were you, Batman? Look what you’ve done_.

Dick wasn’t breathing. His heart wasn’t beating. His face was too pale, and Batman knew it was too late. It had been too late all along. He hadn’t arrived in time to save his ward, after all.

Were he not already sitting on his knees, he would have dropped to the floor with an exhausted thud, but, as it was, all he could do was encircle the boy with both arms and hold him, close, squeezing tight.

Though Bruce remembered having wanted nothing more than to be held forever by someone – by his parents – after they died, and he had no doubt Dick had wanted the same, he’d never obliged the boy like this in all the time Dick had stayed at the manor.

Bruce had left the hugs to Alfred… hadn’t he?

Through the involuntary fountain of tears spilling beneath the cowl from Batman’s eyes, an image flashed – Robin held close, safe in his arms.

He squeezed the nine-year-old a little tighter – that had never happened.

For some reason it suddenly felt more like a memory, and another image came to mind quick on the heels of the first – Dick’s face, several years older, grinning at him like a maniac, obviously excited about something.

_“Today’s the day.”_

_No…you’re never growing up, Dickie. And it’s…it’s all my fault…!_

Head rising to the night, an ear-splitting, agonising cry tore from the Batman’s throat, a clap of thunder overhead following as if to say _let everyone hear_ , before the sky started crying, too.

 _“I love you, Bruce,”_ flitted across the man’s mind, sounding like addlebrained wishes, and whether it was nine-year-old Dick’s voice or this older boy he was never going to meet who said it, Bruce couldn’t tell.

Burying his face in the child’s raven hair, he whispered desperately, wanting the boy to know, to understand, to _forgive_ – “I’m _sorry_ , my little Robin… _I’m sorry…_ ”

Peering over the top of the boy’s head, through the darkness and the rain, a cold hatred, a fierce desire for something he hadn’t felt in years wrapped around Bruce’s heart.

“Tony Zucco…” he breathed. “ _You’re a dead man._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it is at all unclear, this is Batman's fear-dream, after having inhaled Scarecrow's toxin back in chapter 8/Reality ch2. It's an _Interlude_ because he wasn't meant to be in this state for very long.


	22. Fearless 13: Part4 ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 1 April 2014.

**{honest}**

**Part Four: Artemis.**

**Chapter Two.**

_“I have the mole.”_

_…I have the mole._

_I have the mole._

_I have the mole._

_I have the mole._

One loud sob escaped her and Artemis clamped a hand over her mouth at once, staring wide-eyed at the doorway ahead, hoping – _praying_ – no one had heard.

 _Don’t cry…_ she thought desperately, one hand tightening over her face, the other clutching at her fingers. She had to keep her hands together. Move them together. That they weren’t behind her back— _No. No tears, no tears… come on, Artemis—_

But her eyes grew hot, the tears piling up anyway.

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Come on, don’t cry. It’s not that bad… it’s…it’s not that bad…_

But her bottom lip was trembling against the palm of her hand, and the tears were threatening to come to the fore, spill over the brim, run down her cheeks, allow everyone to see—

She shut her eyes quickly, pulled her legs up to her chest, her feet perched on the edge of her seat, head raised to the ceiling as if that would help keep the tears down. Send them back down to…well, wherever the heck it was tears came from. Her fingers slipped from her mouth and her arms settled around her knees, squeezing.

_“The mole?”_

_“But dude, I thought we concluded—”_

_“There is no mole.”_

_“Er, yeah – that’s what I was getting to—”_

_“Well, we were wrong. And Red Arrow was right. And we were all fools for trusting…”_

_“…Wally? Is…Is Artemis there with you? I-I have her online, but… Artemis? You’re not saying anything?”_

…

_“Kid Flash. …Who do you suspect to be a mole – and why?”_

_“No suspicion about it, Kaldur. I know who it is._

_…I watched her betray us.”_

Artemis shut her eyes a little tighter, swallowed. Her throat was sore from keeping it all in.

_“W-Wally, you…y-you don’t mean—?”_

_“I’m the mole.”_

She damn well wasn’t going to let _him_ say it. Just the thought of how it might sound coming out of his mouth… “Artemis is the mole”? Made her shiver. Besides, they may all be liars and cheaters and assassins and moles, but…on occasion, every once in a while, they stood up for what they’d done.

 _Reputation_ , her father called it. _Responsibility_ , Artemis thought. She had to own up to it. Had to…had to admit it…right?

Bats wasn’t… _unreasonable_ , right?

Wally. Wally was being unreasonable – she hadn’t had _any_ control. Her father and her sister had _drugged_ her, she didn’t mean to – she hadn’t _meant_ to, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t—

“…Never…”

She was staring daggers at Wally – reflexively, really, because he was staring daggers at her. It was much the same look he’d given her not that long ago…only… _worse_.

_“Are you that freaked out about Arrow joining the Team, you had to prove yourself by bringing the bad guys down solo? Please tell me I’m wrong.”_

“…Insecure…and…selfish…”

_Yes. Yes, you’re wrong. It’s not Arrow, it’s not proving myself to the Team…or you. No. I’m just so desperate for you not to find out who my family is… I don’t want to know what you’d think of me… I couldn’t face the look on your face. Yours, or…anyone’s._

“…I don’t like it… I don’t like the look on your face…”

_“A-Artemis?”_

_“This isn’t funny – we trust you, Artemis. Batman trusts—”_

Denial. Thinking she’s better than she really is. That suddenly felt worse than what them just believing her would have felt like.

‘I’m sorry’ floated somewhere through the back of her mind, but it was a distant thought she couldn’t quite get to through the mind-link. They must have caught on to the seriousness in her statement—

_“I’m the mole.”_

_“It’s not a joke, Rob,”_ Wally’s seriousness, too, because all at once there was a heaviness in the centre of her mind, as her teammate’s feelings filtered through the mind-link. It was… _over_ whelming.

 _“…I wish it was…”_ she wasn’t sure if that had been some private thought of Wally’s slipping through the link, or her imagination, or…or her own _desperate_ wish.

_“We have your location. ETA—”_

Robin’s words cut off in her head and her team’s collective emotions of disbelief, hurt and betrayal, vanished from her mind. By the look on Wally’s face though, he was still in contact with the others, but, clearly, someone had decided Artemis didn’t really need to know when her teammates – damn, was she even still allowed to think of them as such? – were to arrive.

It felt really empty and really _light_ in her head after they’d gone. Distantly she wondered if Kaldur had had the same kind of weight occupying a cosy spot in his head through the link when they’d all been accusing him of keeping secrets back in September.

They’d all scoffed and scowled and glared at how he could even _consider_ one of them being the mole. And now…scant months later, Artemis really was, after all.

Sportsmaster hadn’t been lying to Aqualad. He’d known _exactly_ what he was talking about. He was orchestrating it, after all – using Artemis to learn about her Team’s – “ _her_ Team’s”, ha! – secrets without her ever knowing or suspecting.

And all the while she’d been trying so hard to keep them from finding out about her family. _“What you ‘proved’ is that you’re insecure and selfish.”_

She shouldn’t have bothered, after all. It was only going to make things worse when Batman found out.

“…The look on your face…”

_“We trusted you, and you betrayed us when you didn’t tell us who your family is – if you had… They never would have used you!”_

They could have protected her from them. But now… Now Wally was clutching her arm too tightly, interested only in turning her over to the Justice League as a traitor and a villain, while the Team… whole-heartedly agreed, it seemed.

But, what else, when she’d admitted as much?

 _Don’t worry;_ she was thinking to herself, her eyes slipping down to find Wally’s hurt foot in the dark. He wasn’t putting any weight on it, was leaning against the tree right next to him for support instead. _Batman will sort this out. Robin’s right – he trusts you. He’ll understand, once I explain – it wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault._

But then she glanced back up at Wally, and saw his green eyes _glaring_ at her.

_What if he doesn’t…? What if none of them do? I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined my chance at doing something good – for Gotham, for the Team, for…_

_“I know you understand…”_

_“In this family, it’s every girl for herself.”_

_“That might have been true about our family… but I found a new family. And here, we’re all for one, and—”_

No. No they weren’t. She’d been wrong, after all.

The look in Wally’s eyes proved it.

She took one shuddering breath, in deep and quickly out. Wally didn’t seem to notice, so caught up in his mental conversation he’d looked a little away from her, off to the side, at the ground…his face was all scrunched up, his brows knit tight and his lips pursed, as if he were arguing with the others in his head.

“Sorry, Wally,” she whispered at him.

His reaction to her words was somewhat belated, and when he looked up it was just in time to see her aim her foot at his injured ankle, hitting it hard with the heel of her boot, twisting her arm to slip it from his grip at almost the same time. Wally let go voluntarily on account of the pain that must have flared up in his ankle, though, one agonized cry that made Artemis cringe regretfully, escaping the speedster’s lips.

She turned on her heel the moment she was free of him though, making for the area she’d left her arrows at.

“Argh— _Artemis!_ ” Wally’s strangled, hurt-filled voice followed her, but, with a deliberate shake of her head and a scrub at her cheeks with the back of her hand, Artemis ignored it.

She plucked the nearest arrow with one fierce tug from a tree the moment she laid eyes on it, moving on to scoop the next off the ground even as she pulled the first one free. Some were stuck well and good, some had exploded, some had created polyurethane foam and more than half were useless, leaving Artemis with no more than a handful and not enough time to look around for any more she might have overlooked, when the Bioship suddenly came into view past the trees.

A sliver of moonlight lit up the red aircraft, pausing Artemis in her tracks. She nocked one arrow after stuffing the rest into the quiver still on her back, and took a few discreet steps backwards, hiding behind several trees.

She took a few deep breaths, checking her arrow – an explosive kind that hadn’t gone off before.

 _What are you doing, Artemis…?_ she thought at herself, chewing absently at her bottom lip. How was she going to escape her five teammates? Well, _four_ , considering Wally had no real chance of catching her, useless as he was with that ankle.

But, M’gann probably already had some idea of where she was, just by zoning in on her thoughts—

_So stop thinking! …Ugh, it doesn’t work that way…_

Superboy could probably hear her heart drumming in her chest louder than she could hear it in her own ears, where it was pretty loud already.

Aqualad…well, he had training, and he wasn’t the leader for no reason – she had no doubt he’d be able to find her _somehow_.

And Robin – was trained by the freakin’ _Batman_ , not to mention the little ninja was gone and back before anyone could blink, sneakier and quieter than anyone could ever hope to be – he was probably the only one Conner would ever have trouble hearing, whether it was his heartbeat or his footfalls, so what kind of hope had Artemis against _that_? No way of escaping, no way of avoiding… she was definitely trapped.

Her heart drumming louder and louder in her ears, she kept her arrow nocked, though her bow was lowered, her eyes on the ground before her, and for every five beats it felt like no more than one second had passed…several tenth beats later, she wondered why no one had jumped her yet.

…Had she imagined seeing the Bioship? Were they still a ways out? Had Robin’s ETA been…what? Twenty minutes, maybe? Was she just standing there, _wasting time_ she could have used to rather _escape_?

Because staying was no longer an option. Her Team wouldn’t believe or trust her after this – Wally already didn’t, why would the rest be any different? Robin and Wally were practically joined at the hip sometimes, they agreed so much. Might as well have been the same person. Robin was much the same with Batman – so why would the big, black bat feel any different than his protégé?

Green Arrow would agree with Bats, because who the hell ever _dis_ agreed? With Batman? _No one_. Even when he appeared to change his opinion to suit yours, make you feel like you’d won the argument, he still only did it according to _his_ terms. Artemis had heard the story about how they’d started the Team – rescuing Superboy from Cadmus, challenging Bats with going their own way… He’d given them what they’d wanted, hadn’t he? But, _on his terms_. So, really, it was what _he_ wanted, more than them.

Hadn’t he done the same thing with Artemis, as well?

Hadn’t they invited her onto the Team to keep her out of trouble? Because she was playing amateur hero in _Batman’s_ city, and they didn’t like it? So they gave her what she thought she wanted – a spot on a Team of young heroes just like her. A spot in the genuine _hero life_.

So long as no one knew about her family, _that_ had been her condition.

And…Batman had agreed, hadn’t he? Green Arrow had, too. But, if the Team couldn’t trust her anymore, didn’t want her anymore…since she was the _mole_ …well. She wasn’t _Batman’s_ apprentice – Robin came first. He wouldn’t want her on the Team, anymore – any more than Wally does. Or anyone else for that matter. She’d get kicked off, and then, no matter any protest, she’d never get to wear this uniform again, or brandish a bow and arrow. They’d make sure of that.

 _So_ what _are you doing, Artemis?_

She wasn’t taking it, that’s what.

She was keeping her bow. She was keeping her arrows. She’d go be a vigilante somewhere else, outside of Batman’s city, away from Green Arrow’s – somewhere _no one_ would ever find her again.

 _“When your little friends abandon you, Artemis, your family will still be here for you.”_ Cheshire’s words suddenly sounded in her head, but Artemis fervently ignored it.

Brought back from her reverie, she concentrated instead on her senses – but she wasn’t hearing movement of any kind, not the sound of breathing, not the twitch of a stick or the crunch of a leaf – where had the Team gone?

Artemis sucked in a quick, quiet breath and braced herself for the worst, before she spun out from behind her tree, bow and arrow raised and ready to fire.

For the briefest of second’s there was nothing and no one – not the glimpse of red she’d thought was the Bioship either – but then, just as she considered lowering her bow and reassessing her surroundings, Conner dropped down in front of her as if out of thin air, the force of his fall slightly shaking the ground beneath her feet.

Artemis raised her bow on instinct, though, at first not recognizing the half-Kryptonian he’d landed so fast, and the arrow was loose before she could stop her fingers from slackening.

A tiny gasp escaped her lips when she realised what she’d done, and Conner, whose blue eyes widened a little, stared past the arrow at her as if he couldn’t believe it either.

The arrow hit him before he could try and move away, still mostly straightening from his landing as he was, but of course the resulting explosion couldn’t do the mini Man of Steel any damage.

It did startle him enough that Conner took an involuntary step back, though, and he must have tripped over a rock in the dark or his own feet, because he went tumbling down to land on his backside a moment later. Artemis barely stuck around to watch the spectacle though, having recovered from her surprise at _shooting_ _Superboy_ in record time – that escape instinct her father had drilled into her taking over – to spin round on her heel and make a run for it.

She plucked another arrow from her quiver as she ran, squinting at the tip as she went to try and determine what it was – polyurethane, that’ll do.

She nocked it.

“ _Artemis_ —” Kaldur appeared to her left, stepping easily from the trees, hands raised as though in surrender and Artemis had a flash-back of when she’d taken up much the same pose against the Reds when they’d invaded the cave months ago.

She’d slowed down at the sound of his voice, but not by much – in fact, just enough for reflex to take over and aim the arrow at him. With a mild flinch she let it loose – all too quick for Aqualad to properly react and unsheathe Water Bearers in his own defence. She hit him squarely in his chest, thus, and without waiting to watch the foam engulf and trap him, Artemis picked up her pace.

Her fingers reached back into the quiver, feeling at how many arrows she had left again – three, and a crossbow bolt she didn’t even remember having picked up.

“Artemis!” Robin’s voice, and then two quick _thwip_ s sounded past her ears, a pair of birdarangs cutting into the ground ahead. They beeped, and Artemis veered off course, diving to the side to avoid the small explosions.

But the clever little bird had anticipated her and the beeping had been a trick – instead of the blasts she’d expected, the birdarangs released thick grey smoke into the air.

Artemis, who went _nowhere_ without rebreathers anymore, quickly snatched one from a pouch on her belt and popped it into her mouth, just in case Robin’s gas was meant to put her to sleep or something.

She was on her feet in the next moment, surrounded by a dull grey, her bow swiftly nocked with an arrow of what kind she didn’t know, standing at the ready to aim and fire at the slightest hint of movement.

Or, maybe not the _slightest_ – Robin was good with the diversions after all, and she only had three arrows left.

Squinting through the smoke, looking for _some_ indication as to where Robin was, Artemis shifted uneasily from one foot to another. It had suddenly gone _very_ quiet.

The Boy Wonder broke the silence when he spoke from somewhere behind her though and Artemis had spun about, bow raised, eyes searching for him through the fog, at the first sound of his voice—

“What are you doing, Arty?”

 _Don’t call me that_ , she groaned audibly, but didn’t remove the rebreather so she could reply aloud – _obviously_.

“Come on—”

She cut him off, though, spinning quickly around again when his voice came from the other direction, and loosing her arrow as she did so. She’d been eyeing it through the fog and felt fairly confident it was another explosive one – if nothing else it would be distraction enough for her to get away.

As it turned out, it was.

She sprinted off, thus, out of the cloud of smoke, narrowly missing running straight into a tree and scraping the side of her arm as she did so, but she didn’t stop – spinning from the momentum around the thick tree trunk, she kept running, picking a new direction altogether. She was moving further away from where she and Wally had been interrupted by Cheshire – and _Sportsmaster_ – but it didn’t matter much which direction she chose, because Artemis honestly had no idea _where_ she was anyway.

Getting _away_ didn’t involve any actual destinations.

_“Your family will still be here for you.”_

Her mind was just mocking her now, Artemis decided, ignoring Cheshire’s voice crooning in the recesses of her mind as best she could. She focussed on her makeshift path instead, bounding over rocks and fallen tree trunks, weaving through the upright ones from one direction to another, pushing aside leaves and avoiding running into low branches—

How long could she keep this up?

She was just becoming winded, and somewhat surprised that there wasn’t anyone immediately behind her – she’d risked a glance not a moment ago – when what might have been a monkey dropped down onto her shoulders.

With a distressed yelp she toppled to the forest floor, painfully hitting her knee against a rock and sucking in a hissed breath at the resulting pain. Her hands scraped against the ground – palm and knuckles, because she refused to release the bow.

“Gotcha!” no monkey. Just Robin.

Teeth clenched in annoyance, lips parted in a snarl – the rebreather long since returned to its pouch – Artemis tensed, putting all her strength into what she was about to do – twisting her body to roll onto her left side, toppling the Boy Wonder off her back. It was easy enough, he was so light and thin, but Artemis had swung back her right hand haphazardly as she rolled over, too, hoping to hit him with her bow for good measure – not in his eye or anything, of course, but a harmless side of his head, sure.

He was quicker than that though, catching her wrist with ease, but he’d apparently not expected her to roll over any farther than enough to get at him with her bow, and he did fall back to the side then, at a loss for balance as Artemis pushed herself up with her free hand.

She twisted her right arm to slip her wrist from his grip, rolled to the right in a quick motion that released her completely from any hold the Boy Wonder might still have had on her, and was on her knees with her bow aimed and an arrow nocked in another second. She released it too, without thinking about Robin’s seemingly wide eyes staring at her, his lips parted in a little surprised ‘o’.

She was honestly thankful for the kid’s quick reflexes when the ground burst in a small explosion that would have hurt very much all the same. Robin was on his feet, several paces away and Artemis was on hers, running off again.

She didn’t get far.

Another cry escaped when Robin’s grapple line tide tight around her ankles, successfully stopping her in her tracks. Her face hit the dirt harshly, making her cheek sting, and this time she _did_ let go of the bow.

Her legs struggling against the rope almost instinctively, though, Artemis was well aware of how defenceless she was without her weapon – maybe her last arrow was a polyurethane one and that’d definitely slow the little, _annoying_ bird down. Superboy and Aqualad probably weren’t very far behind them – and where the heck was M’gann, she wondered as a side – but if she wasn’t being slowed down by the little _protégé_ , she might actually _get_ somewhere with this escape plan.

She grabbed for the bow with one hand, thus, and reached for the arrow with her other, intent on twisting around and shooting at Batman’s apprentice the moment she had him in her sights, when the boy’s weight dropped back onto her back. He wrestled her quiver from her shoulder, keeping her right hand and the bow at bay, and her left hand that she’d redirected at his face at the same time – _somehow_ – while his knees locked tight against her sides to stop her from rolling over again.

“Stop it—” he was saying, voice tight. “Stop – struggling—”

“Like hell!” she snapped. “Let me go!”

“No!”

Her quiver hit the ground and then so did her bow, Artemis deciding it was probably easier trying to get her wrist free without having to hold onto it, too. She snatched her left hand away from his reach at the same time, tucking it in under her body and pushing to lift herself and roll him off after all.

She kind of managed too, but he was stubborn, letting go of her right wrist with his right hand and quickly trading it for his left to keep a better grip on her. He was half standing over her now, having gotten to his feet so she could roll over without him rolling _off_. But he hadn’t counted on what happened next, though, and honestly, neither had Artemis, since she hadn’t actually planned it.

There was a brief moment in which her eyes met Robin’s – or at least, the whites of his mask – and they both kind of just froze, him half standing, still close to her, and Artemis propped up on her left elbow, lying on her side, her right wrist caught in his surprisingly tight grip.

And then she yanked hard on his left hand, and he resisted, which was what she wanted, even though it hurt her wrist a little, lifting her left arm and allowing most of her weight to hang in the air by Robin’s grip alone. He hadn’t expected it, the sudden pull of gravity making him flinch forward a little, and right into the swing of Artemis’s left arm as she punched him.

Her left hand hit his jaw, _hard_ , making his head swing to the side, loosening his hold on her completely, and Artemis hit the ground with a _thud_.

She released a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding, or _why_ , and noticed for the first time that the world around them had gone from pitch black to a gloomy dark grey, the sky miles above no longer twinkling with stars, but lightening at what must have been the first rays of sunlight touching the horizon. Idly she wondered what time it was.

And then Robin had snatched both her wrists above her head and locked them in bat-like cuffs. He kept his hands there, clutching at her wrists with a force she didn’t know he had, his face now blocking her view of what she’d been able to make out of the sky through the rising treetops overhead.

It was only then she realised all the fight had drained out of her with that punch.

She’d split his lip open, but he must have sucked at the wound because the blood was slowly pooling out of it anew.

He had his brows furrowed at her, by the shape of his mask, the pinch of his forehead, since she couldn’t actually _see_ his eyebrows, hidden beneath the mask as they were.

She couldn’t see his eyes either, but somehow, as they always did, the whites of his domino mask seemed to convey just perfectly what eyes might have done. Or maybe he just had an expressive mouth – the twist of his thin lips said plenty all on their own.

He was obviously pissed, to put it lightly, Artemis thought.

“ _What_ is the matter with you?!” he exclaimed, his breath as quick as hers, and his voice sounding strangled, which was strange to her ears.

Not for the first time, Artemis wondered what the colour of his eyes was.

“I thought we were a _team_!”

Brown was an obvious choice – people with dark hair often had dark eyes, too, not to mention brown was just very common in general. But brown eyes were deep pools of _mystery_ , and even though Robin had the whole ‘never reveal my secret identity to anyone’-thing going for him, Artemis didn’t get the impression he was hiding much else from his Team. He was always… _himself_ , or seemed to be. So much so that the secret identity thing didn’t really even _matter_. Mostly it seemed as though he didn’t _have_ a secret identity, like he’d been born and bred Robin and for all they knew that was his real name and Batman was his dad and they did nothing with their lives but patrol Gotham and sleep with the occasional meal in the middle.

So, not brown.

Green was spontaneous, wild and exciting – like…well, like Wally. Robin and Wally were close, but by no means the same. Wally was much more impulsive and extravagant, whereas Robin had a certain reserve. He was an observer, a planner, a mastermind, a do-it-himself, sure, but a team player just as much, as long as there was genuine fun to be had and a well-calculated plan to ensure its success… _mischievous_ , then, really.

Sly.

So…not green, either.

“You and me…” he was saying now, his voice quieter, sounding so…

 _Honest_.

Blue eyes were honest, Artemis decided.

Robin was honest, too. Honest about who he was, honest about his abilities, honest about who he trusted and honest about his loyalties. He cared, honestly, he trusted faithfully, he grinned genuinely, and he _felt_ openly.

“…The _humans_ , remember. No superpowers,” he ground out, teeth clenched, and then he sucked at the cut on his lip and Artemis thought he looked like a _child_. Open. Honest.

If she imagined hard enough, she mused, unaware of the wetness pooling in her eyes for the how-many-eth time in as many minutes, she could imagine two blue eyes looking desperately down at her, trying to make sense of her actions, of her state of mind.

“So what are you _doing_ , Artemis?” he breathed her thoughts back to her, and she blinked.

Had she misjudged them that badly? Were they trying to understand, after all? Would they honestly make the effort? Give her the benefit of the doubt? Keep her on the Team? Trust… _trust her still?_

“What are _you_ doing…?” she whispered back at him, sounding more defeated than she thought she would.

“Rob?” Wally’s voice, coloured with uncertainty.

“Taking you to Batman,” Robin replied, quietly, so Artemis thought Wally – wherever he was – might not have heard. “He’ll know what to do.” Robin was getting to his feet properly as he spoke, his frown dissolving at the unexpected hitch in Artemis’s breathing as she tried to swallow a sob.

By the time Robin had stepped aside and pulled her upright by the wrists he was still clinging to, though, Artemis had managed to compose herself and resolved not to start crying again under _any_ circumstances.

Wally, floating inches above the ground under M’gann’s – who stood right next to him – influence, was a couple paces to Artemis’s right when she bothered to look around for him.

“I see you have her feet tied, too,” the speedster commented with a sneer. “Good. You should probably tie her hands _behind_ her back, though.”

“ _Wally_ …” M’gann’s whispered sort-of admonishment was almost inaudible, but the somewhat disdainful glance she sent Wally’s way was less easy to miss.

“What?” Wally retorted, indignant. “I’m just saying – you never know with this one.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Robin said though, his white eyes on Artemis, his fingers squeezing ever so slightly before he finally let her go and took a step back. Wally gave no indication that he’d heard the Boy Wonder, for he made no comment, and Robin had used his inside-voice again anyway, the comment clearly having been meant for Artemis then.

She resisted a compliant sigh, but didn’t prove him wrong either.

Footsteps to her other side alerted her to Superboy and Aqualad’s approaches and she tentatively looked over to see them emerge from the trees into the bleary morning light that was gleaming through the forest. Her explosion may not have hurt the half-Kryptonian, but his shirt had a fairly sized hole in the centre of his Superman symbol, and the alien hero’s clone had a disgruntled look on his face because of it.

Aqualad was stoic and still as ever, the thin line of his lips the only outward indication that he was at all displeased. “We leave. Now,” he announced with that no-nonsense leader-like tone he sometimes had, as soon as he had everyone’s attention, and the Team wasted no time in following the order.

M’gann had levitated her into the Bioship and settled her into a newly formed chair in the back and there was little Artemis could do to resist the Team as a whole now that M’gann was present and could make her comply with just about anything without Artemis voluntarily lifting a finger.

Against Wally’s protests, M’gann conjured no further restraints to keep Artemis in the seat, and Robin released the grapple line from Artemis’s feet, which, she found, had fallen asleep and were covered in pins and needles in the meantime. They left her alone with varying degrees of hesitation – Wally was scowling, but resentfully complying, M’gann looked more distraught and heart-sick than Artemis had ever seen her, Conner frowned deeper than he’d ever done before and seemed to contemplate staying just outside her door after all until Kaldur put a firm hand on his shoulder and led him to the front of the ship.

The Atlantean had given Artemis a deeply disappointed look over his shoulder before he left, and Artemis’s heart had sunk.

Robin’s expression was much the same, only, when he looked back at her Artemis could see those blue eyes she’d made up looking at her with an imploring honest trust, almost begging her not to try and do anything stupid and escape the ship. M’gann would just shut the open doorway on her anyway, though, Artemis knew, so there really wasn’t much choice – but… she felt like it had been Robin’s unspoken plea that had kept her in her seat the entire ride back to Mount Justice more than anything else.

Left alone with her thoughts and her feelings, thus, she’d involuntarily slipped back into the events of the night and replayed them over and over in her head, getting stuck in places and mumbling to herself—

_“I have the mole.”_

One loud sob escaped her by the time she was pouring over events for what felt like the hundredth time and Artemis clamped a hand over her mouth at once, staring wide-eyed at the doorway ahead, hoping – _praying_ – no one had heard.

 _Don’t cry…_ she thought desperately, one hand tightening over her face, the other clutching at her fingers.  _No. No tears, no tears… come on, Artemis—_

But her eyes grew hot, the tears piling up anyway.

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Come on, don’t cry. It’s not that bad… it’s…it’s not that bad…_

But her bottom lip was trembling against the palm of her hand, and the tears were threatening to come to the fore, spill over the brim, run down her cheeks, allow everyone to see—

She shut her eyes quickly, pulled her legs up to her chest, her feet perched on the edge of her seat, head raised to the ceiling as if that would help keep the tears down. Send them back down to…well, wherever the heck it was tears came from. Her fingers slipped from her mouth and her arms settled around her knees, squeezing.

Artemis shut her eyes a little tighter, swallowed. Her throat was sore from keeping it all in.

_I didn’t mean to – I hadn’t meant to, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t—_

“…Never…”

_“Are you that freaked out about Arrow joining the Team, you had to prove yourself by bringing the bad guys down solo? Please tell me I’m wrong.”_

“…Insecure…and…selfish…”

_Yes. Yes, you’re wrong. It’s not Arrow, it’s not proving myself to the Team…or you. No. I’m just so desperate for you not to find out who my family is… I don’t want to know what you’d think of me… I couldn’t face the look on your face. Yours, or…anyone’s._

“…I don’t like it… I don’t like the look on your face…” Wally scowled at her in her mind’s eye, Conner looked at her in surprise, Kaldur’s calm expression only trying to help, Robin’s frustrated, hurt, _honest_ frown, M’gann’s clear _pain_. “…The look on your face…”

Artemis’s breath hitched, releasing another sob and again she clamped her mouth shut with her hands a second time, bound wrists moving in tandem. _It’s not that bad, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad—_

She repeated the mantra desperately, trying to convince herself.

“ _Taking you to Batman. He’ll know what to do,”_ Robin had said, and though she felt too skeptic to believe it, she _really_ wanted to trust it had been reassurance she’d heard in that statement. They were going to figure things out, and she’d explain and be excused for attacking her teammates, and Wally—

Wally would just…get over it, the way his speedy mind got over lack of pizza when Robin scarfed down the last two slices in a spiteful rush for whatever reason.

 _No, that’s not the same…_ her mind argued feebly, but she barely cared.

Robin had appeared, as he was wont to do, in the doorway ahead and Artemis, who had been staring at the ceiling, took a moment to realize he was there.

She blinked, as if she could make sure there were no tears that way, and lowered her hands slowly because she thought she probably looked ridiculous with them held over her mouth…or pathetic.

“It’s time,” he said, sounding weary and making Artemis’s stomach turn – the phrase was too close to something she thought they said to inmates in prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right around this time I was knee-deep in college work and my writing-time became less and less. Additionally I'd gotten another idea for a fic: _I Got Your Nose_. My updates on _Fearless_ became fewer and further between.


	23. Fearless 14: Part4 ch3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 1 May 2014.

**{betrayer}**

**Part Four: Artemis.**

**Chapter Three.**

Artemis drew in a deep, solemn breath, slowly lowering her legs, feet touching the floor with great apprehension. Her hands rested in her lap. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Her breaths felt heavy with trepidation and anxiety for what she was about to do – what she was about to face.

Reputation _._

_Responsibility._

Robin didn’t seem to mind the time she took getting up from her seat, and M’gann, wherever she was because Artemis saw no one beyond Robin’s small frame in the doorway, knew at once when the archer had stood and had waited on her to do so before shrinking her seat back into the folds of the Bio-ship.

They were being almost eerily patient with her.

Hands tied in front of her, she felt naked and judged without her bow and arrows, with her wrists bound, unable to move and defend herself – against her team? Or, what was once, at least; the thought sounded almost absurd.

Artemis made her way towards the Boy Wonder, who flashed her a lazy smile as he stood to one side, inviting her to leave the room.

She did so, noticing that there was indeed no one behind him. Everyone had apparently already left the ship, leaving Robin as her only escort.

Almost at once another fanatical desire to escape enveloped her insides, but she pushed it down fervently – this was what she _had_ to do. If she was going to prove to the Team that she truly _was_ innocent, even though it looked like she was guilty, having run before and everything, she was going to have to speak to Batman. She needed to explain in as _much_ detail as possible exactly what had happened in the forest.

Wally…for all that he disliked her right now, had always been an honest guy – barring that time he lied to M’gann about believing in magic, but at least he’d come clean about it eventually – and he had _seen_ Cheshire and Sportsmaster drugging her for information. She’d had no choice. He could attest to that. Right…?

With that doubtful thought flitting through her mind, Artemis couldn’t help the bitter question she shot Robin as they exited the area she’d been held in and Artemis noted the rest of the Team’s absence. “What? No _Wally_ to make sure I don’t try and run off again?” she scathed, only somewhat joking the way she and Robin would normally be doing.

But, these weren’t “normal” – or, what was normal for them, at least – circumstances. Artemis, still riding on her emotions from the past few hours, though, found herself too eager for something to be old and familiar, the way they were before Cheshire found her and Wally in the forest, to either care or consider her words.

Robin gave her a look she wasn’t familiar with, before he sort of smiled, almost apologetically, and said, “If his ankle wasn’t broken in the first place, you almost certainly broke it when you hit him.” Artemis visibly flinched, unable to cover the reaction as a snake of rotten _guilt_ uncoiled in the pit of her stomach. She’d never _meant_ to _break_ his ankle. What was Kid Flash without the use of his fast feet? She’d basically disabled his powers.

She felt sick.

“Miss M is hovering him over to the Med-bay,” Robin was still speaking, but Artemis could almost barely hear him. Broken Kid Flash’s ankle. She’d _broken_ Wally’s ankle.

“Here, let me take those,” Robin cut into her thoughts, though not his words so much as his hands carefully placed on the cuffs still locked around her wrists. He fiddled with them, a key between his fingers and they snapped apart, releasing her, a moment later. He took the cuffs and pocketed them and their key, grinning up at Artemis even as she stared down at her hands in surprise.

“I trust you,” the Boy Wonder said to her obviously perplexed expression and Artemis smiled gratefully.

Inside, she felt a fleeting _need_ to knock Robin on the head and make a run for it – steal the ship even, and just _escape_.

“Come on,” Robin invited coolly, flicking a hand at her and turning half toward the exit, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Artemis followed blindly, lost in her mind with her fretful thoughts.

 _Ugh – Wally. Why? I didn’t_ mean _to…_

Looking up from where she’d been staring at her feet as they walked, exiting the ship and entering the hangar proper, Wally was the first person she saw – hovering indeed across the room, with M’gann right next to him, talking quietly, but apparently quickly, with her hands waving through the air and her mind not entirely on what she was doing.

M’gann levitated Wally into the side of a doorway, and the redhead’s howl of pain as he hit his ankle echoed all around the hangar. Artemis stopped walking, almost stopped breathing – he’d been looking over his shoulder, staring daggers at her instead of watching where he was going or he might have been able to warn M’gann of her bad direction.

The Martian girl halted him at once though, of course, fussing over him quietly, apologizing and looking worried, saying things Artemis couldn’t hear from so far away. Artemis wondered if Wally still had a crush on M’gann even though he knew now she was seeing Conner.

Artemis started, stupidly, when Robin nudged her in the ribs, flashed her a smile when she glanced at him, and they fell into step beside each other once more.

Artemis kept her eyes downcast, after sweeping the room one more time with her gaze.

Superboy and Aqualad had been standing a ways from the Bio-ship with Batman, Aqualad doing most of the talking. After Wally’s cry, though, the alien clone was marching towards the hallway Wally and M’gann had exited through, his fists clenched and his jaw set. Artemis didn’t see the look he shot her as she and Robin passed, heading for a different exit apparently, but she could _feel_ his eyes boring into her like he had heat-vision, after all.

Aqualad and Batman had stopped speaking to look up at Wally as well, until he was subdued and safely on his way again, which was about when Artemis and Robin came trudging past, giving the two older heroes something new to look at.

Batman’s calculating gaze was worse than Superboy’s stare, making it seem a mild pinch in comparison to a thousand long, thin-tipped, sharp-point needles _boring_ into her back, trying to find the right spot to prick her in so she’d talk. The glare wasn’t necessary though, Artemis had already decided – albeit only once Robin had caught her and she’d had no choice – another lack of _choice_ – _but_ to come in – that she’d sing like a little yellow canary. To Canary, to Batman, to Martian Frickin’ Manhunter – _anyone_! She wanted to speak to anyone who would listen and believe her.

“Wally told us what happened,” Robin said quietly, almost conversationally, as he led her through the exit, down the way, and eventually into a corridor Artemis was not familiar with. “With Cheshire and Sportsmaster…that they’re… Well, you _know_ ,” he looked at her imploringly, rounding another corner. “Your family.”

The corner of her lips twitched almost irritably as Robin spoke, but she schooled her features quick enough. “Yes,” she said curtly, and then after a moment decided to elaborate anyway; since it was out in the open now after all the least she could do was be honest about it, “Criminals. Both of them – and my mom used to be, too. I’m the only one who…who got out while I could. Did something… _better_.”

Spots of colour rose in her cheeks as Robin came to a stop and she halted, too. He looked up at her with a sad expression, and she felt stupid and embarrassed for having been so honest with him.

But Robin’s blue eyes were sparkling at her, and Artemis felt contentment overriding all other emotion.

Here was a boy she could trust – and _did_. Here was a boy who believed in her. Trusted _her_. _Cared_ about her. Artemis had a hard time “staying whelmed”.

“You _are_ doing something better,” Robin said to her, his grin wide and joyous. “For yourself _and_ your family, even though they may never see their mistakes _or_ take a different path, all you can do is try. And you _have_ tried. And done very well.”

Artemis had her eyes on the Boy Wonder, who really was a wonder, she realized – he was so full of joy, and _life_ , and _wisdom_. He was a marvel to behold, and she felt eternally grateful for what he’d said to her, how he seemed to understand. So it made her sad and concerned, when the boy’s face suddenly and inexplicably fell.

“Batman will talk to you soon – after Aqualad reports on the mission, I suppose,” he spoke somewhat solemnly, burdened again by the weight of the situation and what they were here to do.

Artemis felt that same weight settling onto her own shoulders, weighing even more somehow, as though it had gone out during the night and come back with a heavier burden to add to all the guilt and weakness she was generally lugging around.

Robin started walking again, “I’m taking you somewhere you two can have a conversation comfortably, without all the others around. I could stay, too, if you’d like,” he glanced at her.

Artemis crossed her arms, feeling almost vulnerable, and a little _weak_ because she realized she was going to take the Boy Wonder up on that offer.

“Whatever you want,” she said, trying to sound as unconcerned as she possibly could. It wasn’t much – probably not enough to fool a boy schooled in reading people through their voices as easily as through their body language. “I mean, I don’t mind,” she added, waving a hand through the air. “If you don’t mind…”

He grinned at her, “Just, you know, stay whelmed. Batman’s cool. I’ll talk to him first, too – we all will, probably,” he shrugged. “He’ll want to know what happened from all of us before hearing it from you…” that wasn’t reassuring in the least. “But I’ll make you sound good.” He winked at her, and Artemis suddenly felt a little more relaxed and light-hearted by his attitude.

“Thanks,” she replied, genuine mirth in her tone, a smile creeping across her lips that she couldn’t stifle – it was hard to be negative when Robin was trying his best to make her feel better.

He beamed at her, stopping in front of a door. He pulled down on the handle and held it open for her to enter first. “I’m sorry about all this, you know,” he said as he did so, smile turning a little wan once more.

“It’s okay,” Artemis said with a sigh, uncrossing her arms and entering the room. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I know you’re on my side…” she trailed off a little, having entered the room properly, allowing her to see the entirety of the room’s interior. From outside, all she’d really glimpsed was the opposite wall.

Artemis had figured once Robin had brought up the room that it was probably a sitting room much like the one Canary used for their therapy sessions whenever those were needed – she’d kind of expected to be dragged off to that eventually, in fact. Or, barring that, it would be a proper interrogation room like one of those in the movies and she’d been privately, mentally preparing herself for one of those, because it seemed like just the thing Batman would use for a _talk_.

What she found instead of either, though, was both startling and confusing.

A bed stood in one corner, a set of small chairs and a tiny bookcase beside the entrance, with a closet built into one part of the wall opposite and no door to shut its bare shelves with. There were no windows, and the only other door seemed to lead to a bathroom. The lights were far overhead, fitted securely into the rocky walls, and… _that_ potentially looked like a _camera_ tucked snugly into a corner overhead.

Artemis frowned at the room, her eyes flitting over everything, confusion setting in even as Robin spoke in reply to what she’d been saying. “Well, ‘sides’, sure,” he suddenly sounded very different. “Since you’re a traitor. I suppose.”

Her head whipped around so fast her ponytail swung over her shoulder. “What did you say?” she was startled by how breathy her voice sounded.

“Sorry, Arty,” he sounded almost sincere, and that was scary – Robin didn’t do “ _almost_ ” sincere. “That you have to play scapegoat for me in this,” and then he pushed hard on the door, slamming it in her face even as Artemis moved to leave the room. But the door swung shut and she reached for a handle that wasn’t there, her heart sinking to the soles of her feet as she realized she was trapped.

She looked up, her eyes wide and shamefully fear-stricken, to peer through a small square window in the door. On the other side, Robin smiled at her.

She could still hear him speaking, “But honestly, this couldn’t have turned out _more_ perfect for me.”

“Robin,” she said, her tone somewhere between desperately confused and desperately annoyed. “What the hell is going on? Open the door!”

“That would be counterproductive,” he answered with a cheeky grin and she scowled at him.

“What are you talking about? I thought you were helping me!”

“Don’t be so distraught, Arty,” he said. “Remember what I said about that – traught or dead, those are your options,” he shrugged.

Artemis clenched her fists against the door, pulling one hand back to slam it against the solid surface. “ _Open_ this door! You can’t keep me in here!”

“ _I’m_ not,” he said, sounding wounded, touching his hand to his chest. “We all are…you’ve _betrayed_ us, Artemis. It can’t be helped. You’ve given away our secrets – to the _League of Shadows_ , no less.”

“No…” she shook her head, fiercely, and interrupted the rest of his words, “You know that’s not true! They _made_ me – you said you believed me!”

“And I do,” Robin replied with a shrug. “And Wally does, too, but he’ll be easy to convince otherwise. As for everyone else – they weren’t there. They just saw you run. And shoot at them. Let’s not forget that.”

“Why are you doing this…?” she breathed. “ _Who_ are you? You _can’t_ be the real Robin—”

He cackled. That _signature_ Robin-cackle that was so _very_ him. Artemis thought she’d stopped breathing for a moment. She couldn’t think.

He was betraying her. He’d told her everything was going to be alright, that he was going to help her, and that Batman would understand, and she’d _trusted_ him. They were in it together. They always had been, but now…

 _“…The_ humans _, remember. No superpowers.”_

“What are you _doing_ , Robin?” she asked, quietly, anxiously.

He stopped laughing, but didn’t stop grinning. “Covering my own ass,” he said easily. “I didn’t know your family were criminals. I didn’t know they were using you to steal Team secrets, either. But it works out great for me. So, thanks.”

“M’gann will read my mind,” Artemis said suddenly, desperately, a fierce desire to survive taking hold of her. She didn’t _want_ to be the traitor. She didn’t _want_ to be the mole. She didn’t want it to be Robin, either, but… “She’ll see this – she’ll _know_ about you, and how you’ve been lying—”

He chuckled again, his laugh so cheery and confident it scared her. She wondered if this was what the bad-guys felt like hearing it. He sounded so sure of himself, and he looked it, too. It was enough to put anyone off their game. Having it directed at her felt eerie and unnatural. _Wrong_.

“Sure she will,” he said sarcastically, and waved a hand at her as he started to turn away. “Don’t worry, Arty. M’gann and J’onn will see _just_ what I want them to.”

He winked at her, and those bright blue eyes she’d been seeing on his face suddenly seemed murky and brown, deep and filled with endless, dark and terrible secrets. Eyes like her father’s. Like her sister’s. Like her mother’s had once been.

“Robin!” she called after him, and hated how her voice shook and broke, how the tears sprang up in her eyes again.

She was trapped. She’d betrayed her Team and her _friends_ , and the _one_ person – the one person most like her – who she’d wanted so desperately to believe could and _was_ helping her…had betrayed her in turn.

Artemis sunk down onto her knees, feeling weak and weary and wishing suddenly with all her heart she’d tried just a _little_ harder to escape back in the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing evil!Robin was definitely my favourite thing. XP


	24. Fearless 15: Part1 ch3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 5 May 2014.

**{argument}**

**Part One: Robin.**

**Chapter Three.**

Wally’s eyes widened, the moisture in them made more profound by the action.

His jaw dropped. “You…you don’t know…” his voice was barely a whisper, but the ominous words made Robin’s heart sink into his stomach.

“Don’t know _what_?” it was becoming more obvious to Dick this wasn’t something about _today_ , then – not something about his parents, not Wally somehow knowing…

The knowledge brought Dick no comfort.

“Uh…”

“Baywatch – quit hogging the Boy Wonder!” Artemis cut into their conversation, marching up to them, but she’d barely finished her sentence properly before Wally spun on her.

“Back off, Artemis, you don’t know a thing,” and he’d sped back around, caught Dick by an arm and a leg, swinging him across his shoulders, and ran off with him to the living room in a matter of seconds.

With a pant, Dick landed on his feet, feeling dizzy and dishevelled – heavy on the _diz_ and the _dis_ in equal amounts – from the speed at which Wally had moved him. Generally it was easier to handle, but the speedster had caught him so off guard—

“You need to go home,” Wally implored.

“Why?” Dick repeated, frustrated.

“You…you just _have_ to, okay?” Wally replied, his eyes flitting nervously this way and that, landing, Robin noted, a second too long on the television’s remote lying on the back of the couch next to them.

Wally noticed Dick noticing, though.

“Hold on, I’m taking you home,” Wally said, swiftly grabbing the remote before the gingerhead slipped away in a rush of air that left Dick’s hair wind-swept. He was back, dressed all in yellow and red, just as Dick started patting down his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly, holding up his palms at Wally when the older boy made to grab him again.

“ _Please_ , _Dick_ ,” Wally whispered, pleaded, and Dick tried hard not to start panicking. What the hell was going on?

The Boy Wonder asked why again as more of a distraction, his own swift reflexes jumping into action as he leaped forward, fingers clutching tight at the remote still in Wally’s hand.

The speedster was caught off guard, after all, and made no move to stop Robin until it was too late.

Dick had shoved the remote in the direction of the TV and was pressing the button, his free hand on Wally’s shoulder to keep him away, even as the speedster reached out to stop him.

The television flickered to life, on a news station instead of Conner’s usual void screen, but there was barely time enough for the sound to come on before Wally had grabbed back the remote and shut it off.

“Dude, you _need_ to go home – you can’t watch this here—”

“No!” Dick said defiantly, reaching for the remote, but Wally, being taller, was holding it as high above his head as he could. “I want to know what you’re hiding!”

The sudden, inexplicable desire to _know_ was eating him up inside and, absently, Robin wondered if this was what Wally felt like when he’d gone too long without a snack.

“You shouldn’t – _ack_ —!”

Robin was half-climbing up the speedster, Wally trying to zip away at the same time, and for the next few minutes the pair of them were engaged in a sort of wrestling, sort of cat-and-mouse game.

Wally tripped over his feet, zipping this way and that, but never far enough, as he tried to shake off the Boy Wonder, who was quick to tackle him and hang on as tight as he could, forever reaching in vain for the remote.

“Stop,” Superboy’s voice cut into their grumbling and protesting, silencing the pair as the Kryptonian clone caught the remote out of Wally’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“Turn it on!” Dick exclaimed.

“Don’t turn it on!” Wally said at the same time though, the young speedster balancing for half a second on one foot, bent over backward with Robin half climbing across him, one hand stretch out. He’d paused in an attempt to speed away when Conner caught the remote, and promptly lost his balance even as he spoke, landing him and the Boy Wonder both in a heap on the floor.

Conner considered the pair for a moment, M’gann hovering over his shoulder, Artemis and Kaldur filing into the room as well, with Zatanna trailing behind and trying to squeeze in to see.

Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity in which Dick waited in uncharacteristic anxiousness, Conner aimed the remote and pressed the button.

“ _No_ ,” Wally breathed, the most defeated, heartbroken expression on his face Dick had ever seen. He had no time for feeling guilty though, because the TV’s sound came to life just then, and stole all the feeling from his insides.

_“The vehicle has been confirmed to belong to billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne, but whether the Wayne Enterprises CEO was in fact in the vehicle at the time of the crash, has yet to be confirmed—”_

“What—” Dick breathed, hopping to his feet and grabbing hold of the back of the couch, his wide eyes glued to the screen.

“Oh my gosh,” Artemis breathed from behind. Robin’s eyes scanned the television screen, taking in the air shot of the crash site. Depicted was a vehicle, at the bottom of a hillside, so mangled, frazzled and smoking that Robin couldn’t even tell which of his guardian’s cars it was. “Bruce Wayne…”

“The billionaire from Gotham?” M’gann asked tentatively from behind Conner. “Who helped out President Harjavti in Qurac? You know, after our mission there…?”

“Yeah…” Artemis replied quietly. “That’s the one.”

“Well—is he okay?” M’gann asked a little anxiously, and Robin noticed how she floated higher to see the screen properly over Conner’s head.  Conner was staring stoically, his dark brows furrowed, but at Robin, not the screen.

 _“—Reportedly the CEO was seen leaving Wayne Enterprises in, what appeared to be,_ this _vehicle—”_

Robin met Conner’s eyes when he glanced around at M’gann when she spoke, and he realized suddenly that his heart was pounding. Superboy had probably heard, hence the frown.

_“The only body found within the vehicle, however, has not yet been identified.”_

Wally was still sitting on the floor, staring up at Dick apprehensively, clearly unsure of what to be saying or doing, or expecting, maybe, of his best friend.

On screen, the reporter was still speaking, her calm monotone cutting into what would otherwise have been complete silence, for all but Dick’s pounding heart. He thought he could hear it, too, now, when he looked down at Wally. He thought it rang in his ears, drowning out everything else.

The reporter was saying something about… Dick didn’t even know. He wasn’t listening, and was barely _hearing_ her voice or anything else at all now. It was all just drowning away.

Bruce Wayne’s car had toppled down a hillside, had been burning and smoking, had smothered the life inside – _Bruce’s_ life.

Wally was right. He didn’t want to hear this. Not here.

He needed to go home.

“Er…” Wally’s voice cut in through the silence, Dick’s best friend making a move to get up and Robin blinked, realizing he’d been staring down unseeingly at the speedster on the floor. He looked up instead, to find all of his teammates with their eyes on him, too, each one looking almost more concerned than the last. “I just remembered,” Wally was on his feet, his arm slung over Robin’s shoulders, grinning nonchalantly at the Team. “Rob and I actually have somewhere to be. Later, guys!”

Wally had him off the ground and sped down corridors and around corners until they were facing the zeta-tubes in the hangar before he’d even finished his sentence.

“Dude?” Wally asked anxiously, his hands on Dick’s shoulders as he bent a little forward so their eyes were level. He looked concerned. Distantly, Robin knew Wally had reason to be and he should probably say something to reassure his friend, but… Dick’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.

His throat was dry, but his palms were sweating and his fingers were trembling.

His knees felt weak and he was almost convinced he’d just go ahead and drop to the floor if Wally let him go. He was tired of standing, and breathing, and _living_ altogether, suddenly. What he really wanted was to go back to sleep and wake up later, wander down the stairs of the manor and find Bruce coming in through the doorway, just arrived from work.

“Alfred…” Dick breathed, staring at the Flash symbol on Wally’s chest. Hadn’t Alfred asked Dick if he wanted to ride _with him_ to fetch Bruce from work? He’d politely declined, and that left him to figure Alfred would have driven by himself – but he wouldn’t have gone right away after Dick left, and Robin hadn’t been at the Cave all that long yet. Alfred wasn’t supposed to fetch Bruce for a few hours yet.

“What?” Wally squinted at him, Robin noticed, but he wasn’t paying attention to his friend, his training kicking in at last instead, and his mind was working frantically, trying to figure things out.

If Alfred had gone to pick up Bruce for some reason after all, though the time was all wrong – shouldn’t there be _two_ bodies in the car, instead of just the one they had reported on?

Dick’s stomach churned at the thought, but Robin’s mind persisted.

It didn’t make sense – Robin hadn’t been gone long enough for Alfred to fetch Bruce _and_ head home, potentially crashing along the way.

Unless…unless he’d never made it to Bruce, and it was _Alfred_ —

 _No, don’t_ say _that!_ Dick snapped, clutching at his hair.

“Dude—” Wally started, squeezing tighter on Robin’s shoulders. Robin shook his head.

 _You’re right. You’re right. Witnesses said_ Bruce _—_

 _Shut_ up _. Shut up, shut up, shut up—_

“Bruce can’t be dead, though,” Robin whispered over the mantra in Dick’s head. “He’s _Batman_ … He can’t die. He _can’t_ die.”

Wally was staring at him, the speedster’s eyes growing wider the longer he listened, his mouth working like he meant to say something, but didn’t know what.

“Robin…?” Wally finally found his voice, though it was incredibly soft. “You should really go home, bro…”

Robin kept shaking his head, though, not really listening. “He wouldn’t die. This has to be something else. He wouldn’t just—” he looked up, and Wally recoiled. Dick wondered what his face looked like. He had his friend by the shoulders before he even knew he’d moved, “He wouldn’t just _die_ without telling me!”

“Er…” Wally stared and, to Dick’s utter shame, his friend looked _scared_. Had he been Bat-glaring at him?

Robin gave Wally a little impatient shove as he spun away and took to pacing. Dick wished he’d stop, it was making him nauseous.

The smoke and the fire, and the crumpled up metal of Bruce’s once fancy car, and the firemen and police standing around on screen, and the distant noise of the helicopter taking the shot, and Artemis and Conner, and M’gann floating, and Kaldur and Zatanna, and Wally on the ground, all _staring_ at him – was all he could see in his mind’s eye, even as he glanced over the shaded floor beyond his sunglasses. He didn’t want to remember it, but it was persisting and it made his insides squirm.

Robin tried ignoring it fervently, setting his mind back to work even as he regarded the images flashing through Dick’s mind.

“Something _else_ must be going on,” Robin pondered aloud. “Maybe…his identity got compromised? And he needed to make it _look_ like he’d died…”

“Dude…” Wally said from somewhere behind him, Robin’s pacing taking him a step farther in each direction with every turn. “I…I don’t think…”

“You hardly _ever_ do,” Robin snapped, cruelly, making Dick blanch. _The hell? We don’t talk to Wally that way!_

 _Maybe we should – he’s getting on my nerves. Batman is_ not _dead._

_That doesn’t give us the right—_

“Dick…” Wally whispered, and Robin stopped at once, Dick spinning around to face his friend. “Go _home_ ,” Wally pleaded, taking a step toward the Boy Wonder, gesturing the zeta tubes with one hand. He didn’t seem offended at what Dick had said. “ _Please_.”

“If we’re compromised,” Dick tried to reason. “Home is the last place I should be. I’m safer here. In fact, Bats will be looking for me here, obviously—”

“Dude,” Wally interrupted, unexpectedly right beside him, “I…” he was suddenly at a loss for words again and Dick frowned.

In a moment he would, on any other day, at any other time, describe as _insane_ , Dick reached up and pulled off his disguise.

“Dude, your sunglasses—”

“I don’t think it matters,” he shrugged, hooking them onto the front of his shirt. Wally had seen him without them before after all, and, he reasoned, he could just get rid of the surveillance footage some other time if it was necessary. He really wanted to be looking at his friend as _himself_ for a moment. “Just for a little while.”

“…Okay…” Wally said, though he still sounded uncertain.

A beat passed.

“Walls,” Dick looked up, and watched Wally swallow, looking apprehensive. Dick finally felt the guilt settle in – for not having trusted Wally, and making his friend worry now. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Bruce can’t be…he just _can’t_ … Not…not…” _Today._

“Today,” Wally finished in a whisper, and Dick’s eyes widened.

“What?” he grabbed Wally by the shoulders again, never getting a firm enough grip on the spandex to grab him by his uniform. “What do you mean ‘today’? What does _today_ have to do with it?” he snapped, feeling sick again. He didn’t want Wally to know. He didn’t want _anyone_ to know. He just _didn’t_.

 _Today is_ today _,_ Robin interrupted. _Bruce wouldn’t wake me up this morning, but he wouldn’t have left me alone, either. Not today…_

“Well, I…” Wally started, and he was the guilty-looking one then. “I know today’s… it’s a _bad_ day for you, dude. Because of… well, you know…” his voice got lower and lower, quieter and quieter as he spoke, his cheeks colouring with guilt and embarrassment.

_He drove himself to work this morning, leaving Alfred to look after me._

“ _Your parents_ ,” Wally whispered.

Mangled bodies, bent limbs in leotards of red and blue flashed through Dick’s mind, woven into the images of Bruce’s ruined car – and then Batman, in an alley somewhere, the moonlight illuminating his twisted corpse—

 _So he drove himself_ home _, too – when I didn’t want to go get him._

Robin had allowed him to fall.

_And then he…crashed._

Phantom fingers clutched at his elbows, lengthy nails scratching at his scalp before they gripped tight, pulling back, but Robin didn’t want his head to move. He couldn’t take his eyes off Batman – hands raised, head shaking, incoherently muttering, while he moved back, back, _back_ —

Over the parapet even as Robin screamed, eyes widening.

Wally was staring at him, hazy through his suddenly tear-filled vision.

“ _Alfred_ ,” Dick hiccupped, his throat sore and his heart _longing_ , inexplicably, for the butler. He wanted him, desperately, to tell him everything was alright and Bruce wasn’t, _wasn’t_ , dead somehow. Fallen off a rooftop or tumbled down a hillside either way.

 _It’s_ your _fault, Dick—_

He shoved Wally away, harder than before, even as he moved at a run towards the zeta tubes’ control panel, frantically typing in his destination, getting through three layers of security in a matter of minutes. He had no idea what Wally was doing all the while he worked, but he didn’t think the speedster had moved unless he’d done it very quickly, because there were no footsteps reaching his well-trained ears.

“Rob, I’m sorry—” Wally finally spoke, just as Robin faced the zeta tubes and the scanner turned on.

_Recognized: Robin B-01. Access not granted._

“What?” Dick yelped. “ _Why_? I did everything right—” he ran a hand through his hair, pausing halfway as he realized. “Stupid,” he muttered, and grabbed his sunglasses, perching them back on his nose.

“Dude, Robin,” Wally was at his side in half a second, just as the computerized voice announced—

_Recognized: Robin B-01._

“Forget it, Wally,” Dick interrupted, somewhat bitterly. “I don’t…I don’t feel like talking to you right now,” he sniffed, and rubbed at his nose, walking into the tube even as Wally still tried to speak behind him.

A moment later he was bathed in that tingly feeling zeta-teleportation always left him with, but he was _home_ , finally, too.

Stepping into the Batcave, removing the sunglasses a second time, the first thing he noticed was Alfred waiting for him.

The butler stood straight as always, but Dick knew him well enough to notice his shoulders were sagging, his lips were pressed into a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and his brows drooped in a pitying sort of way. His nose was too red at the tip, and his eyes looked older, thick, swollen bags beneath them that hadn’t been there before.

Dick’s bottom lip trembled as he came closer, slowly. Part of him wanted to rush at Alfred and have the butler just _hold_ him, because that would make everything go away and leave him safe again. But Robin still doubted the news despite Alfred’s sad appearance – but what else could have made the man look like this, though, Dick had to argue.

Robin had nothing to counter with, so, voice shaky, he did the only thing he could, “Tell me it’s not true, Alfie…? _Please_?”

Alfred crossed the space between them in three lengthy strides and Dick leaped the last one into the butler’s arms after all, unable to hold it in any longer.

He cried into Alfred’s shoulder much like he had over his parents that morning, and, even though it was Bruce he was sobbing over – his guardian, his mentor, his _father_ -figure, his friend – who was probably _dead_ now, just like that – _today_ of all days, having Alfred be the one to comfort him was strangely… _soothing_.

He’d been so scared back at the Mountain, watching the news. _Confirmed to belong to billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne_ – and his heart had started hammering in his chest, pumping fear instead of blood.

What would he do without Bruce? How could he… _survive_?

Robin’s instincts had tried to reasonably argue against the possibility, but Dick knew it was a hope in vain when he saw Alfred standing there.

He’d been terrified that it was true – Bruce was gone – and then he was terrified that he’d be all alone, again—

 _At least you only have_ one _day in the year to reserve for mourning,_ Robin thought cynically in his head and Dick sobbed louder even as he, for some incomprehensible reason, felt better. Not at Robin’s tactless comment, but rather because Alfred was squeezing him tighter.

“I’m so… _s-so_ sorry, Master Dick…” Alfred whispered, Robin’s ears picking up on the stutter, and Dick realized the butler must be hurting just as much as him. He hugged him back tighter, too.

“It’s okay, Alfred… it’ll be alright,” Robin promised, lying.


	25. Fearless 16: Part2 ch3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 30 Aug 2014. By then, the fic as a whole had kind of started to lose my interest, and the interest of its readers I suppose? I was having a fun time trying to write _I Got Your Nose_ anyway, _and_ I'd started with _Loitering_ shortly before this chapter, which I had been super over-enthusiastic about.

**{quiver}**

**Part Two: Red Arrow.**

**Chapter Three.**

It was unsettling.

The atmosphere – as if the very air itself shared in their – or, _his_ , at least – discomfort.

The silence – for it was _absolute_ in its reverence. She stood calm even as her shoulders were squared, her arms firmly crossed and her feet solidly apart. But he couldn’t hear her breathing and she didn’t shift her weight or change her posture.

There were no other sounds from within the depths of the cave either. No static television singing echoing from the lounge. No footsteps, even though he knew Artemis was somewhere down a corridor.

Even his own heartbeat wasn’t drumming in his ears. His own breathing was still and regular despite the nervous energy coursing through his veins. He could stand not to move for a small eternity, as well – just as he’d been trained.

 _But_ …this was starting to just get ridiculous.

They’d been watching each other not move for at least ten minutes already. Maybe she was sizing him up. Maybe she was waiting for him to speak first. Maybe she was considering what to say.

For all that she had the potential to scream his head off – _literally_ , if she so desired – Black Canary was not _exactly_ the argumentative type. She was more subtle than all that.

She didn’t yell. She hardly even needed to raise her voice more than the bare minimum sometimes. He’d often speculated it was all about Dinah’s _control_ and her initial lack of it when she first discovered her abilities. She was careful, so _very_ careful, he thought, _not_ to lose that control.

Maybe she thought she might after all, if she was to open her mouth and say something right now.

Maybe that’s why she was keeping quiet.

As was often the case in these situations though, the more the silence _dragged_ on, the worse it felt.

Roaming through the hallways before, trying to find someone else that could tell him what the heck was going on – _where_ was Green Arrow, when had they been found, _what_ the heck had happened to him? – his mind sprang with little needed conviction towards all the worst possibilities it could conjure up.

Oliver was dead.

Batman was livid – and suspicious.

Dinah was disappointed.

Artemis was furious and hated him even more – for all that he believed her a potential mole, he could hardly deny how _genuine_ the care and admiration she showed towards Green Arrow seemed. And that in itself was a whole different thorn in his other side.

The Team…would never accept or trust him again once they were safely returned home – even if he had a hand in that – and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself to them.

He’d never be part of the League. They’d all be blaming him – heck, Artemis had practically said as much already; before it was just in his head.

And they would be right – all of them. It would be _his_ fault.

He would have taken the life of his _mentor_ , and father-figure, and _friend_ , and—

He’d had to banish the thought several times down the halls, less he break down into tears or something (and someone find him _then_ ), but now – nothing Dinah could say to him at this point could be worse than everything he hadn’t already told himself (or what Artemis had already implied – at least, so he thought), so – it didn’t matter anymore what _might have been_.

Oliver was alive.

There was only one thing he needed to know now—

“Take me to Green Arrow,” it started impressively, voice firm and almost dangerous, but overall determined – his hands clenched into tight fists, his posture matching hers for fierceness. But it took all of a single raised eyebrow to weaken his resolve, and by the end of the demand it was sounding more like a question to his ears. That only made him angrier, though.

He didn’t except her to acquiesce – and, no surprise, she didn’t – but he hadn’t really expected her to answer either – too much time working with The Bat – and certainly not with, “Artemis does not want you to see him.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he ground out, some of his determined frustration returned in the wake of the “other archer’s” desires being set before his own. _He_ was family, dammit – _wasn’t_ he? – what the heck was _she_? “I de—”

“And neither do I.”

“You don’t mean that,” fell unbidden from his lips, barely above a whisper.

Dinah blamed him after all. She _was_ disappointed.

For all the imaginary feelings he’d conjured up during his wayward wanderings from the Med-Bay, all the mock preparation for a scenario exactly like this, all the explanations he’d considered and disregarded and reconsidered again, all the potential reactions he thought she might or may not have – none of it quite compared to the actual blow of hearing his fears confirmed, after all.

Nothing he _thought_ he’d be feeling was quite as potent as the actual coil of guilt tightening in the pit of his stomach.

Not a moment ago he’d been convinced nothing she could say – even if it was exactly _this_ – could be as bad as the creations of his own destructive mind, but clearly he’d been wrong.

Though her posture seemed to soften somewhat – the shift in her stance, the slight sag in her shoulders in no way indicating a lowered guard, however – her eyes never lost their unfamiliar coldness. They stayed as sharp as ever, locked on his own even as they were still hidden behind his mask.

She shook her head ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly and he might have missed it if he wasn’t watching her as intently as he was, suddenly desperate for any indication that she had been… _what_ – joking _?_

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even funny to want it to be a joke.

All it did was scare him.

Was she really going to keep him from seeing Oliver?

…Until _when_?

_Why?_

What…just _what?!_

“I do,” Dinah said calmly. “Until _he’s_ decided he wants to see you, I’m not letting you near him. And even then…” she trailed off, her last remark only loud in his ears because of the silence everywhere else. Finally she shifted her gaze, as if the sight of him was at last too much to bear.

Unaware, he’d taken several steps backwards, his hands clenched, short nails digging into his skin.

This wasn’t happening.

They were treating him like…some kind of _criminal_. Batman locking him in the cave, Dinah refusing to let him near Oliver, Artemis _blaming_ him—

 _I…I don’t understand…_ he raised one hand to his forehead, suddenly aware of an insistent pounding inside his skull.

_“The hell were you thinking?!”_

He blinked, looking up and around – what voice had that been? Where had it come from?

She was watching him again, blue eyes narrowed and suspicious.

“I…” he looked down at his still half-raised hand, surprised to find his fingers shaking. He swallowed, throat feeling thick and clogged. “..I-I…” he was hardly aware of what he wanted to say, how to explain the turmoil squirming just beneath his skin.

“Roy…?” Dinah started, sounding wary, a hand reached out as she took a tentative step towards him, but he backed up at once.

What had they done to him?

“What is this…?” he breathed, eyes narrowed at his trembling fingers, before he quickly closed them against his palm. He looked up, glaring at her, “Let me out of here,” he commanded. “You can’t keep me in here like a caged dog!”

She’d halted in her step, the first an audible courtesy and the three quick strides in its wake quiet as a mouse, but she didn’t dare move closer while he had his eyes on her, apparently.

He backed up some more just to be safe.

“Batman locked you in,” Canary said, perfectly calm, but her tone only set him further on edge, made his head hurt more. “I can’t—”

“Don’t _lie_!” he spat. “There has to be some way – some…some emergency override or _something_! Even for the _Bat’s_ commands. I _won’t_ stay here!”

Hands fisted he tried hard to keep them still, his arms feeling as though they were wildly flailing like someone was shaking him by the shoulders even as he kept them rigid at his sides. If she took note at all, he was hoping she’d interpret the quivering as his rage shining through – because he _was_ angry.

He had no idea what was happening to him – the shaking, the headache, this thick feeling in his ears blocking out every other sound, locking him in his own head…where there were _whispers_. They must have done something to him – given him something. He couldn’t stay here. Not with _them_. There _had_ to be some way out.

Black Canary regarded him quietly, carefully pulling back her hand and re-crossing her arms. She narrowed her eyes, her lips twisting into a frown.

He shifted his weight, uneasy. There was no way he could fight her and win – not without a weapon, and he hadn’t brought his bow or arrows with him from the Med-Bay—

“Black Canary 09, initiate Emergency Override,” she said, and he blinked, stunned. Was she actually—? “Enter command: Recognize Red Arrow B-06.”

_Emergency Override Initiated._

He swallowed past the thickness in his throat, took a deep breath through his nose and nearly choked on it – on the paralyzing fear clogging his arteries.

_Recognized: Red Arrow B-06._

He stared. For at least another thirty seconds before sound made it past his lips, “That was too easy…” tentatively, he looked around, over his shoulder at the gaping zeta-tube in the wall – he was right in front of it now, after all the backing-up he’d been doing.

“I thought you _wanted_ to leave,” Canary practically snapped at him, and he looked back around, recoiled at once when he found her right in front of him. She grabbed him by the grey harness he usually had his quiver attached to, and gave him a rough shove backwards. Stumbling slightly he fell into the zeta-tube’s vicinity proper.

It whirred to life, the computerized voice announcing—

_Recognized: Red Arrow B-06._

_“How long – I haven’t got all day, you clowns! Get him out of there, already!” _a voice screamed in his head, clearly livid, but at who or what, or where it had come from, he couldn’t tell.

Canary watched him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, crossed arms, as he winked out of existence from the cave and rematerialized in the phone booth in Star City.

It was night time – _still_ , or again? He couldn’t tell.

Shaking, he half-stumbled, half-fell from the booth, hands seeking support from the nearby wall, but he’d barely reached it before his legs felt like jelly and he ended up leaning against the wall, slowly sinking down to his knees.

Breath heavy, heart thudding in his chest, he swallowed a few times, feeling as though he might be sick.

A noise from above caught his attention though, and a short spike of adrenalin in anticipation of a threat had him jumping to his feet a moment before a shadowy figure landed in front of him. It took him a moment to realize who it was—

“ _Cheshire!_ ”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she purred, one hand on her hip as the other pulled off her mask. A coy smile graced her lips. “When you didn’t show up at the rendezvous I was worried,” she shrugged one shoulder. “So I decided to come looking.”

“I…” he frowned at her, feeling foolish at having no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh,” she moaned, her free hand flying up, somehow too fast for his usually swift reflexes, leaving him with no time to duck the blow—

…that never came...

Instead all he could do was flinch, as she rubbed the back of her forefinger down the length of his cheek, across the Band-Aid. “What is it your ‘friend’ calls it? Souvenir?” her smile was wicked, but not… _malevolent_. It seemed rather… _teasing_ , instead. He narrowed his eyes at her, thinking it was the dark playing tricks on his mind.

“But honestly, I didn’t mean to do that,” her hand retreated and she shrugged at him again. “You should have moved faster – I thought you would.”

She watched him, almost expectantly, but all he could do was gape at her.

_What are you talking about…?_

_“Well, work faster!” _the voice in his head snapped again and he winced, curling in on himself involuntarily, the throbbing in his head starting up again – he’d hardly noticed it had faded somewhat before. He clutched at his head with one hand, the other a fist against the wall and his knees fighting hard not to buckle under him.

“Roy?” Cheshire said, sounding confused and… _concerned?_ “What’s the matter, Lover, you look pale?”

“ _What?_ ” he half-breathed, half-snapped, half-choked all at once, looking up at her in alarm. _What did you call me?_

“Roy?” she said urgently, both her hands cupping the sides of his face. He breathed, making a strained, ragged sound, and all he could smell was _her_ , and all he could feel was _fear_.

_“What do you mean ‘oops’?!”_

He blinked, certain for a moment it was _Sportsmaster_ in front of him instead of the man’s assassin partner. But then there she was again, inexplicably worried for him and he couldn’t breathe or speak, or _understand_. He felt faint, and terrified, and that was all there was.

What was he doing – what was he doing _here_ , with this assassin who was as much responsible for whatever happened to Oliver as he was? Why did he feel so… _satisfied_ at her presence, her concern, even as it scared him? He didn’t understand, _dammit_!

“It’s alright,” she whispered soothingly, which was strange and loving and _scary_ for him. “I’m right here…” and she was, when his legs could no longer hold him up, at last, she caught him in her strong arms as he fell, and, to his own surprise and horror, he clung to her, somehow safe, “My little broken arrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because nobody seemed to care about this fic anymore, myself included I think (I was too far departed from the cartoon at this point anyway, and sinking deeper into comic book land :|), I stopped writing and eventually deleted it.  
> At some point I _had_ cross-posted it to AO3, but that hadn't done much to inspire me to keep working on it.
> 
> The following chapters contain future scenes I had written, and a proper explanation and summarized ending if you're interested. :)


	26. Fearless: Extras

So, to summarize: Joker, Scarecrow and Sportsmaster kidnapped the Team, locked them in an unnamed facility in an undisclosed location, drugging them with Scarecrow's feargas. The point here was mostly to rattle them before the Light's big plan gets set into motion, I think. Roy was not meant to be kidnapped, since he's (spoiler! :o) the mole. Sportsmaster pulls him out of his fear-dream and dumps him somewhere Green Arrow can find him, and he helps the League find the rest of the Team. I never got that far, but M'gann and Superboy are also kidnapped.

The following are some future ideas I actually managed to write out; they're not super spoilery or anything (and it doesn't matter anymore now XP):

 

**2 April 2014**

“I’m sorry…sorrysorry…sorry…”

“…Uh…”

“For this, I don’t—mean to…makeyouuncomfortablesorry…I just… just need to know – be sure – sureyou’restillalive, herenownotgoinganywhere, notshotordeadordeador…dead…”

“I’m right here, Wa—Kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just…justmakingsure. Sorry…”

“…Yeah…yeah, okay… I get it…”

“…”

“…”

“…I’m still mad at you, though…I mean, I’mgladyou’renotreallydeadoranything, butI’mstillmadaboutthebriefcasethingandeverythingand… okay? So I’m not…this doesn’t change things, I just—”

“Yeah. Okay. I got it. …You’re still mad. That’s…fine.”

**(What Wally is referring to still being mad about, is Artemis fighting Cheshire solo in episode 23, season 1; since, I shoved in _Fearless_ between episodes 24 and 25)**

* * *

 

**7 April 2014**

**So at some point, M’gann was going to wake up at the same time as Wally, probably, and, seeing everyone in their pods, she’d mind-link them, but then get sucked into the fear-dream again, and everyone would kind of get a turn going through each other’s dreams, trying to snap one another out of it. This was Wally, in Dick’s dream:**

“You're just telling me what I think I want to know.”

“What _you_ think you—? What…?”

“Because you’re not real,” a faint chuckle escaped the Boy Wonder’s lips. “But I already know that. You’re just in my head.”

_Is this your fear, Rob? To…lose your mind a little? To live so inside your head you don’t know any more who’s real and who isn’t? Are you scared you’ve lived among the crazies of Gotham for so long that you’ll eventually become one of them? And that you won’t know us anymore?_

“Rob!” Wally said insistently, catching the now softly giggling boy by his shoulders and squeezing hard. “I’m _real_ – see? I’m _right here_!”

Robin’s giggles evaporated into a heavy sigh and still he didn’t look up. “You’re only here because I want you to be here, Wally. I kind of miss you, dude…”

“Snap out of it!” Wally snapped, feeling a somewhat unfamiliar spark of anger creep across his insides. But, oh, what the heck – he deserved to be a _little_ heated, right? His best friend was practically giving up – giving _in_ , to the madness, after all. He wasn’t listening.

“I’m not _in_ anything, Wally!” Dick’s voice was irritable now, too – exasperated, exhausted – and he shrugged Wally’s hands off roughly. “I know exactly what’s going on!”

The kid turned his back on his friend, shoulders more slumped now than ever and it sent a strange, squirming feeling through Wally’s stomach – seeing _Batman_ look so _defeated_.

“It’s over…Bruce is gone,” Dick whispered. “Alfred…Alfie, my only…” he swallowed almost audibly, head lowering a little more. Wally zipped around Dick, leaned forward and peered into his cowled face. Stubbornly, the boy avoided looking up at him, the whites of his cowl slipped into slits, seemingly scowling at the floor. Scowling with a sort of desperate sadness, Wally thought, by the twist of his best friend’s lips. “Gone, too…”

He sniffled, and Wally felt his heart lurch painfully.

“And I’m all alone – with nothing but this figment of my imagination, trying to convince me he’s real, be-because,” he drew in a shuddering breath. “I want to believe that so _badly_. But you’re just gonna go away like everyone else,” he clapped his hands to the back of his head unexpectedly, covering his ears with his forearms and Wally suddenly realized – this was _his_ fear, too.

His best friend consumed by Gotham’s madness. He was afraid of it happening, too.

“Because you’re all in my head…” Robin whispered desperately, the whites of his cowl almost black entirely as his eyes shut. “You’re all in my head…in my head, in my head, in my head,” he continued his mantra and Wally could do nothing but stare.

How was this possible? Were their fears, being the same, kind of melding into each other, becoming more potent, making it harder for him to snap Dick out of it?

“Dude, I don’t get it…” Wally breathed, feeling sick because he felt like he was giving up, too.  
Robin’s whispering stopped short, arms lowering to his side and his white-covered eyes focused intently on Wally.

“I know, Walls.” he said, somewhere between serious and comforting. “I _know_.”

**(I had it in my head that Dick would know he was in a fear-dream~)**

* * *

 

**I believe _this_ scene was related to the above dialogue between Artemis and Wally – being, after they escape from their fear-dreams, they try to also escape the facility, getting separated:**

“Are you insane?!” Wally snapped, his fingers unintentionally digging into the flesh of her arms. “Do you _want_ to be shot again?!”

Artemis’s eyes grew wide inside the slits of her mask and Wally gasped, realizing too late what he’d said. He clapped both hands over his mouth as though that could’ve made a difference, but all it did was turn his knees to jelly. The adrenalin from jumping to spin Artemis out of the way and clinging to her afterwards had been the only two things holding him upright, and now that both were gone he’d lost all will to stand – all _ability_ , really.

Wally dropped down to his knees with a painful _thud_ against the floor and sat there sort of trembling, his fingers clutching at the skin of his face, his mind cursing his too talkative mouth and his stomach grumbling painfully for want of food.

He could feel Artemis’s eyes on him still, until the sounds of voices came from around the corner once more, swiftly followed by several echoing gunshots.

Wally’s head snapped up and he stared at her wide-eyed, but Artemis’s eyes were focused over his head and her back was pressed against the wall, her chest heaving up and down, her hands grasping her bow tightly, two arrows nocked and ready to be fired at a moment’s notice.

She paid the speedster no mind at all, and Wally yelped involuntarily when she spun back round the corner, firing both arrows at the same time – and then she was falling back, shaking and convulsing as a spray of bullets pelted her mercilessly, and Wally stared wide-eyed and shocked, and _scared_ as she landed next to him, her dead eyes on him and her lips parted. They moved for a moment – _why didn’t you save me?_

Wally’s mouth opened in the beginnings of a scream when Artemis returned to her sheltered spot, catching his eyes and looking somewhat quizzically at him. The scream died in his throat.

Meanwhile the resounding gunfire had ended abruptly shortly after Artemis’s arrows had been released, and none of the bullets had seemed to hit her after all, but Artemis’s arrows had found their marks.

Wally released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when she peeked around the corner to make sure she’d taken out the gunmen – with sleeping gas or drug-tipped arrows, probably – before looking down at him, slinging her bow back over her shoulder.

For a moment he just sort of stared at her, and she stared back at him, and Wally felt decidedly _over_ whelmed by the fact that she was still alive.

Artemis swallowed hard and shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, and Wally realized he was still covering his mouth with his hands and probably looking like an idiot. He settled his hands in his lap instead and snapped his gaze away from hers quickly, but it felt disconcerting to be looking away from her – a hazy fear-induced memory crossing his mind where, in the one _second_ he’d taken to quip at Robin, a team member _had_ gotten hurt right next to him because he hadn’t been watching out for them like he’d been supposed to. He looked back up at her at once, thus, his heart skipping a beat in anxiety, afraid of seeing the aftermath of some mutilation that had taken place during the absence of his eyes on her.

Thankfully there was no such thing.

Artemis was slowly getting down on her knees, though, and his eyes held hers steadily as she came closer to him, her lips parting to speak, and when she did, she sounded a little hesitant, “I…got shot? In your…in the fear-dream?”

_Fear-dream_. Robin’s term. It didn’t – it hadn’t – felt like a dream to Wally, though. More of a fear- _reality_.

He swallowed nervously again, fleetingly wondering how much time they had to sit here and talk about it before they were discovered again. “In the head…” he breathed, without having meant to, his eyes focusing on the spot on her forehead where blood was bubbling forth and spilling out in a river of red – up, towards her hairline, her head snapped back and her eyes staring vacantly at him.  
He started, blinked, and the vision was gone.

Artemis’s expression was a cross between a grimace and pitying frown and Wally didn’t know what to think of it.

“Everyone,” he said, because he’d started speaking now and his damned mouth didn’t know how to shut up. “Everyone died,” he could barely hear himself, but he didn’t know if it was because he was talking really fast or really softly. “Burned. Blown away. Shot, and shot, and shot. Strangled. Blown up. Beaten, tortured, twisted,” he was wringing his hands together, staring at her as the words came spilling out and he realized he was talking fast, after all.

She cut him off though, snapping loudly through his string of ways to die, “ _Kid Flash!_ ”

He blinked, and swallowed, and took in the rest of her face and realized she looked scared, and he felt bad, because he hadn’t meant to scare her, honest—

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, soothingly and it sounded just like her as much as it didn’t. She had her hands raised, having brought them up when she’d interrupted him, as though for emphasis, or maybe comfort because they were inches from his shoulders but she wasn’t touching him after all and he thought he really wanted her to, though. “I’m right here. I’m not dead – none of us are, and we’re not going anywhere either. We’re all getting out of this.”

Wally stared, his eyes flickering over her face in search of any trace of a lie, but he found none. He was breathing quickly though, he realized, and his heart was thumping in his chest, and his throat, his pulse racing as though he’d just run six times round the earth, hot on Uncle Barry’s heels—

He flung his arms around Artemis, burying his face against her shoulder, forcing her still-raised hands to touch his. She stiffened at once, taking in a little gasp of breath that rang in his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Wally said even as he clung to her, and then he couldn’t stop again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry…” speed-apologizing not quite as fast as Uncle Barry could talk, but getting pretty close with his nerves piling up, as he felt her shoulders tighten in surprise and potential discomfort and he figured he should probably explain himself. “For-for-for, for this,” it took him a moment to slow down long enough to get the words out properly. “I-I don’t mean to, I just – just, just, just—” he sucked in a quick breath, his mind racing through a myriad of exercises he could do to calm himself down before he decided he didn’t care and just went on talking as is after all, “Just need to know you’re really alive,” his grip tightened on her sort of instinctively, his eyes shut tight as if that would shut out the rest of the world, too, leaving him with nothing but the knowledge that Artemis was alive and with him. He started over again, feeling a little sick with himself for making her as uncomfortable as he was, “I’m sorry – so sorry, sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry—”

“I-it’s…okay,” Artemis said quietly over his chanting, but it didn’t make him stop until she whispered his name, too, “Wally…”

She made no move to hold – or hug – him back though, the backs of her raised hands resting against his shoulders with their fingers curled and the muscles of her arms still tight even though her shoulders had relaxed the tiniest bit.

Wally, strangely, wondered when the last time was that someone had held her like this.

He knew next to nothing about Artemis’s home life, and had basically just assumed it wasn’t so bad since she lived with her uncle, who was Green Arrow, and according to RA that was not the worst way to be living by far, so there you go. But, since she was living with her _uncle_ , what had happened to her parents…?

* * *

 

**22 April 2014**

**I don’t know if this was meant to be the very next chapter, after where I stopped, or somewhere a little further along the line, but – this is Bruce, waking up from inhaling the fear toxin after fighting Scarecrow (like much else, it’s incomplete):**

His fingers twitch, clutching at fabric and skin that he only just half-registers is not there.  
There’s water on his cheeks and for a moment he doesn’t comprehend that either until he feels the drops of rain properly and it makes more sense, because he’s staring, howling at the crying sky.

…Isn’t he?

He thought he was, but he’s not sitting up, he realizes as well, but rather lying down, half on his back, half on his side, and that half of him _hurts_ , like he’d just went plummeting down from a great height.

…Hadn’t he?

His mind feels only half-awake, his body only half-aware and somewhere between the two an agreement is struck that if his eyes could only open, he’ll have a better sense of what’s going on.

But the moment he does there’s nothing but darkness – a thick, swirly black that swims in front of his vision, creating dim forms and blurry shapes that feel as though they _want_ to be solid and recognizable, but his brain is skimping out on the deal and whilst his body keeps his eyes wide, his mind doesn’t make sense of what he’s supposedly seeing.

It frustrates and annoys, because he _wants to know_ – demands to – and in a rush of adrenaline, egged on by his infuriation at his sudden inability to perform this simple task of _seeing_ , he pushes up into a sitting position. The movement is swift, and easier than he thought, for some reason, it would be, but the moment he’s properly erect and _moving_ , pain flares up in his side, dancing across his back and shoulder, down his arm, and his attempt to sit up is suddenly accompanied by an angry, pain-filled cry that fades into a growl in the back of his throat as he doubles over, one arm wrapped about his front, his hand to his side.

Had he broken something when he fell?

* * *

 

**26 July 2014**

**This was going to be part of Roy’s fear-dream, but I don’t think I used it; I might have forgotten about it:**

For a long while there was nothing but silence.

Roy was well-acquainted with this tactic, and eventually he knew she’d win out. He’d finally snap and start talking. Only, he was mentally making sure that, when he did, he wouldn’t be telling her _anything_. This wasn’t going to turn into one of her therapy sessions. She was going to tell him how Ollie was doing, and then she was going to reprogram the zeta-tube for him to leave. To go help the Team, which is where he ought to be right now.

**And later, during his next chapter, which I never got to:**

“Oh, dear…how do you not know?”

“Stop with the games, Cheshire-”

“It was you. _You_ betrayed your Team. _You’re_ the mole. You gave them up to us. _Set_ them up. Easy pickings. It was all you…Oh, no, no – not with the face. Come now, it’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. You still have me. You still have me, my little… _Broken Arrow_.”

 

“When you tracked me to the roof, aimed arrows at my head and _demanded_ the location of your _precious_ Team, I was...confused, to say the least. But when Green Arrow showed up, I realized it must’ve all been playful banter! I was impressed at how you kept your cool. Without even clueing me in, either. Very devious.

“Even moreso, how you set up your old mentor for us. I’m impressed.”

* * *

In the end the League would have found and rescued the Team, Sportmaster and his co-horts long gone. There'd be bonding and therapy, and I was planning on writing something to segue nicely into episode 25.


	27. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Twice~~ Thrice Wally remembered Valentine’s Day, and the four times he forgot.

_After Midnight._

**PALO ALTO**

**February 14, 00:03 PST**

**_Team Year Six_ **

Brucely was curled up into a furry ball of sleepiness when Wally came home. That the dog was white instead of black like a bat had been laugh-worthy irony in Wally’s opinion when they decided to name him – until Dick pointed out Bruce Wayne was also Gotham’s _White_ Knight. Way to ruin his fun.

“How’d it go?” Artemis’s voice came from the next room when she heard him sit down at the kitchen table.

Wally rubbed at the kink in his neck. “Argh, it didn’t,” he said as he did so. “We talked. He wouldn’t hear us,” thoroughly defeated, Wally put his gloved hands to his face. “Ugh, on top of that, my Vietnamese Lit paper is still due at 8 AM.”

Artemis had entered the room, settling her hand on his shoulder as she rounded his chair from behind and came to stand on his other side. He peered up at her, “…I don’t suppose I could copy off yours?”

He didn’t really expect her to say yes, of course, but… it was worth a try.

She gave a quiet, throaty little laugh that made him smile, as she settled her arm comfortably around his shoulders and rested her other hand on her wrist, successfully encasing him.

She planted a peck on his cheek. “Not a chance.”

Wally could only smile, and, as he watched her dark grey eyes, he finally, _finally_ , remembered something.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s after midnight. Happy Valentine’s Day, Artemis.”

She pulled back, her smile growing wider. “You remembered,” she said, surprised, but apparently elated.

“ _Come on_ ,” he said, watching her pull away from him. “What kind of jerk would I be if I forgot Valentine’s Day? …For the fifth year in a row,” he added.

“Well, I remembered, too,” Artemis said as she made her way the few steps to their fridge and took hold of the handle. “I got you your favourite food,” she pulled open the door, leaning against the side of it with one hand on her hip. “ _Everything_.”

And she wasn’t even kidding, either.

Bowls, containers, paper bags, bottles, half a ham, a _whole_ turkey even – _Man, what did I do to deserve you again?_

Eyes wide, Wally stared at the fridge, a somewhat less goofy grin than what he’d patented some five years ago plastered on his face.

“Babe. You rock.”

He got to his feet at once and walked over to her.

Artemis wrapped her arms around his neck and let him hold her, but only for a moment before she said, “You’re still worried about Roy.”

He wasn’t sure it was even a question, she knew him that well.

Of course he was all kinds of excited about his Valentine’s Day gift, but his reaction had, admittedly, been a little more subdued than usual.

She wasn’t wrong of course. Roy still weighed heavy on his mind – if neither he nor Dick, and not even Ollie or _Dinah_ could have gotten through to him, then…who was left?

Who was left who could _actually_ reach their old friend and help him make peace with all of this?

Wally, though it _pained_ him to do so, didn’t think there was anyone left.

“He’s lost, Babe,” Wally replied sadly. “Alone. The guy just won’t let anyone in…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from episode 4, season 2 of _Young Justice_.  
>  The first six chapters were posted to ffnet 14 Feb 2014.


	28. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch2

_Remind Me To Call._

**CENTRAL CITY**

**February 14, 00:16 CST**

**_Team Year Two_ **

Artemis flew past the moon on an old-fashioned broomstick, black cape swishing. She wiggled her nose this way and that, blowing him kisses, before Wally awoke to the sound of the _Bewitched_ theme song half muffled by his pillow.

He blinked blearily just as the song cut off, only to start up for the sixteenth time a second later.

Groaning, Wally reached under his pillow and pulled out his singing phone, switching off the alarm with the press of a button. His reminder still blinked on-screen though: _Valentine’s Day, dude. DON’T forget._

“Right,” Wally muttered, pressing ‘Dismiss’ and squinting at the date and time through the bright light of the screen. “Not forgetting…” he flopped back down to his pillow and dozed off, never sending Artemis a message.

Seven and a half hours later Artemis was beating him awake with her broomstick, and Wally rolled restlessly out of bed as he fought to come awake. “Ow…”

“Breakfast, Wally,” his mother said brightly, peeking into the room. “…What are you doing on the floor?”

“Nothing,” Wally mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Just…hanging out.”

* * *

 

**CENTRAL CITY**

**February 14, 13:10 CST**

**_Team Year Two_ **

Wally West was hungrily stuffing food in his mouth during second break, pointedly ignoring the fact it was icky-looking slop that tasted like cardboard, when a group of girls entered the cafeteria, all dressed in pink.

One of them, Jasmine, with her thick dark hair and long legs, was carrying a heart-covered box under her arm. “Valentine’s Dance tickets over here!” she called through the cafeteria chatter, and most of the students quieted down to listen. “We still have about sixteen left.”

Wally’s head whipped up and he swallowed fast. Nearly choking, he hopped off his seat, dismayed by the crowd of kids that had already gathered around Jasmine and her friends.

_Duuuudes, don’t take them all…_

He patted his pockets in the hope that he had some more change in there somewhere, as he made his way over, annoyed that he couldn’t just speed through the throng and be the first in line.

He’d been meaning to buy them tickets since the week before, but Valentine’s wasn’t on the forefront of Wally’s mind in general – being Kid Flash was, mainly. That and Artemis. Of course. And so he’d forgotten.

He’d been planning to take her to the dance at his school – show her off a little, at last, he had to admit. He’d been meaning to their first Valentine’s, but Artemis wasn’t big on dances, or the actual dancing for that matter – not in crowded places with strangers, anyway – but it was their last year in high school, and he probably wasn’t getting another chance like this. And even if he would, he didn’t know that – so, better safe than sorry.

The dance seemed like the perfect idea. He was going to get her a nice dress and shoes, too, and surprise her. Well, assuming he could still get a ticket.

Otherwise…dinner and a movie?

Wally hadn’t spoken to Artemis all day. He’d fervently _meant_ to message her the _instant_ it became Valentine’s Day – at least, that had been his intentions the night before – only to completely forget and go back to sleep after his alarm had belatedly woken him up.

He’d taken no notice of the date until halfway to school, when they started a twenty minute love song session “for all you lovebirds out there” over the radio.

But, after some reflection, Wally had concluded he didn’t want to wish Artemis a happy Valentine’s Day and ask her to “be his” over the phone or in a 145 character message. Instead, he wanted to tell her face to face.

He was a big romancer after all, all the girls knew it, and so he couldn’t be anything less with his own girl, could he?

Besides which, he’d forgotten his cell phone at home.

At last managing to squeeze past a couple of learners, Wally landed in front of Jasmine and her friends. She was putting the lid back onto the box, and, in a moment of panic, Wally practically yelled at her as he blurted desperately, “Two, please!”

Jasmine recoiled, her eyes wide and blinking at him, “Er…”

Her blonde friend snatched the box out of her hands then, though, giving Wally an icy glare as she chided, “Sorry, _Wall-man_ ,” she scowled, using the nickname he’d sort of given himself and regrettably used at school only the once. Once was once too many. “We’re all out. You and your _infamous_ girlfriend will just have to stay home,” sneering at him she hooked her arm through Jasmine’s and dragged the dark haired girl after her, leaving Wally with a scowl on his face. What’s-her-name was only annoyed with him because he wasn’t dating Jasmine, and they were convinced Artemis didn’t exist since no one had ever seen her.

Shoulders slumped, Wally sighed. Apparently Artemis would just have to stay a mythical figure, then.

_Hang on, there’s always prom,_ he remembered suddenly, lighting up.

But, for Valentine’s – dinner and a movie after all, then.

* * *

 

**CENTRAL CITY**

**February 14, 15:48 CST**

**_Team Year Two_ **

Finally home, Wally jogged up the pathway to his front door, the gaudy yellow school bus starting up the street after its brief pause to let him off.

“Hey, Mom!” he called a greeting despite not knowing exactly where in the house his mom was, but not particularly bothering to care either, as he dropped his backpack in the hallway and made for the phone.

Since he’d forgotten his cell phone that morning, he’d fidgeted on the bus all the way home, chanting in his head a reminder to _“Call Artemis, call Artemis, call Artemis”_ before he managed to forget that, too.

That it was Valentine’s hadn’t really stuck with him despite the shocking pinks and hearts and blown kisses and cuddling that had been going on around school. Rather, little things had jogged his memory – like Jasmine and the box of tickets, for example. One of his classmates had asked him if he’d gotten a Valentine’s Day card – or was he waiting on one from his “girlfriend,” ha-ha – just as Wally had stepped on the bus, reminding him he needed to _actually_ call Artemis and set up the dinner and a movie date if he wanted one.

He’d just reached the phone, hand poised to snatch it off the hook, when it started ringing.

“Remind me to call Artemis,” he said, by way of hello.

“It’s going to have to wait, kiddo,” his Uncle Barry’s voice came through the receiver, and Wally was suddenly glad it hadn’t been some stranger calling. “The Rogues are having a party and,” a quick pause, like Uncle Barry’s sentence got cut off for a moment as he concentrated on something else, “I could use a hand.”

“You’ve got two,” Wally said at once, hanging up and speeding off to his bedroom. Kid Flash emerged in a blur of yellow and red as he sped off, calling to his mom, wherever she was, “Got to go, Mom – superhero stuff!” and he was out the back door, speeding down the street without pause.

Mary West wandered into the hallway from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She paused, raising an eyebrow at the empty hall. “…Wally…?”

* * *

 

**CENTRAL CITY**

**February 14, 23:12 CST**

**_Team Year Two_ **

Aching, exhausted, stuffed at least, and not caring in the slightest that with his hair still wet it was going to be tangled and standing in all kinds of directions in the morning, Wally fell down on his bed and sighed blissfully.

Captain Cold and the Rogues had set a complicated, elaborate and confusing plan in motion that afternoon to capture and potentially unmask the Flash and his partner. They’d ended up literally chasing wild geese at one point, and spent the entire afternoon well into the night running around – chasing the Rogues, disabling bombs, speeding civilians to safety, until, finally, they’d tripped up the Rogues and caught them one by one in traps of their own making.

Wally was ecstatic to be at home and able to go to sleep at last. However, as he drifted into a dream where Artemis scowled at him, wiggled her nose and turned him into an asparagus, Wally couldn’t help but think he’d forgotten something.


	29. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch3

_While You Were Sleeping._

**PALO ALTO**

**February 12, 08:57 PST**

**_Team Year Three_ **

Wally hobbled into the lecture hall with a crutch under each arm and a pretty brunet carrying his backpack at his side.

“So, how long will it have to stay on?”

Wally shrugged, pouting down at his cast-encased ankle. “Not sure…” It hadn’t been that bad of a break, for one thing, but also, with his relatively accelerated healing, it was sometimes hard to tell. He was by no means The Flash, but he wasn’t the average normal-healing person, either.

“I’ll tell you this, though,” he said, as he sunk laboriously into his seat at the front of the hall. The girl dropped his bag beside his table and smiled at him. He kind of wished she wouldn’t, though, because it made her look scary. “I already can’t wait.”

She giggled, and was about to say something else when their lecturer entered the room. Wally gave a grateful smile and mouthed a thank you that she’d carried his bag as she grinned at him again and skipped off to her seat.

Pulling a pen and paper from his backpack, Wally sat a little straighter in his seat, taking notes as the lecture began.

At the top of the page he started with the date—

_11 February 2013._

* * *

 

**PALO ALTO**

**February 13, 11:30 PST**

**_Team Year Three_ **

Wally turned the doorknob with his free hand, only to have it stuck halfway around so he had to start over again. Twisted open all the way, the door still deserved a hard thud from his shoulder before it swung open and he stumbled inside.

Sitting by the desk in the corner, Wally’s roommate idly leaned back in his chair and glanced at his redheaded friend with an amused expression. “You always travel that light?” the jock inquired, and Wally scowled at him.

“Ha. Ha,” the speedster said mirthlessly, kicking the door shut with his crutch and sauntering over to his bed where he dumped his baggage – an armload of books he’d been holding onto awkwardly, his nearly soaked raincoat and equally wet backpack, and his pair of crutches as well, before he fell face first onto his bed and sighed.

“I don’t ever want to get up again…”

“Don’t you still have classes later on?”

Wally groaned, lifting his head to scowl some more at his college friend, “Vic, you’re ruining my good mood.”

“ _That_ is good?” Victor chuckled heartily at Wally’s expense, souring his mood even more. Man, it _sucked_ having a broken ankle.

The redhead pushed himself off the bed, shouldering his backpack and gathering his crutches again.

“You doing anything nice for that girl of yours on Valentine’s?” Victor asked, busying himself with the football in his hands, twirling it around, throwing it from one hand to the other. Wally noticed he was also staring absently at his computer screen – the dude had an essay to write, but it was apparently going _very_ slowly.

“People are still doing Valentine’s then?” Wally replied, his mood infinitely better at the thought of Artemis, and infinitely worse at the prospect of _Valentine’s Day_. The previous year had not been excellent.

Victor chuckled, “I know what you mean,” he said. “What’s the point of it anyway, right? If you get dumped, you’ve spent all that money on a girl who’s going to burn all your V-day gifts and poke a voodoo doll in your image with a needle all day,” he scratched at the back of his head.

Wally frowned, “You watch too many movies,” he commented, and then blanched, “And also – Artemis is _not_ going to dump me. Or burn any of her gifts,” _Mostly because she doesn’t have any of those…_ he didn’t add.

Vic shook his head, looking skeptical, “How serious are you and this girl, anyway?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Wally shifted his crutches, feeling an itch growing on the tip of his nose.

“We’re _serious_ ,” he insisted. “We’ve even been thinking about getting a place together. So I won’t have to look at your pathetic face anymore. And also, because your feet stink.”

Victor laughed, as Wally had intended, and threw his football with a strong arm at the speedster.

Instinctively, he caught it, dropping his crutches as he did so, miraculously keeping his one-footed balance.

“Nice catch, Track-and-field,” Victor grinned at him, getting up from his desk chair to retrieve Wally’s crutches for him.

“I have my moments,” the speedster said smugly.

“No kidding,” Victor rolled his eyes, returning to his seat with his football in hand.

“Anyway,” Wally shrugged, turning to the door.

“Where you going now – you just got here.”

“I have a test at noon,” Wally replied.

Victor whistled sympathetically, “That’s in…like sixteen minutes.”

“I’ll make it,” Wally said, feeling only half as confident as he sounded, before he forced open the door and shuffled out into the hallway.

Since it was only Wally’s second day with his foot in the cast, it was not enough time for it to have healed enough that he could comfortably manage a somewhat disfigured jog at a subtly accelerated speed. Despite the fact, he _did_ make it after all, so far as the lecturer was concerned – but that was only because _she_ was late.

Wally scrawled the date in the top right-hand corner of his page, his thoughts speeding through a mind palace of information, trying to find the physics room—

_12 February 2013._

* * *

 

**PALO ALTO**

**February 13, 15:16 PST**

**_Team Year Three_ **

“So? The test, how’d it go?” Victor asked, as Wally hopped into their room several hours later, looking more sullen than when he’d left.

“It didn’t,” Wally moaned. “I’m all confused…”

Victor raised an eyebrow at the redhead, who dropped his bag unceremoniously to the floor; his crutches too, as he flopped onto his bed in much the same manner as he’d done before.

“Er…come again?”

“I had the dates mixed up,” Wally explained into his pillow, sounding muffled, but still understandable. “Apparently it’s the thirteenth.”

“Oh. Well, yeah…” Victor said, nodding understandingly. “So…when’s your test then?”

“Yesterday.”

Victor cringed, sucking in air through his teeth, “Ouch, man.”

“Yeah,” Wally sniffled.

“Guess that’s what happens when you spend an entire day in the hospital…”

“…Yeah…”

* * *

 

**MOUNT JUSTICE**

**February 14, 18:59 EST**

**_Team Year Three_ **

_Recognized: Kid Flash B-03._

Wally materialized in the mission briefing room of the cave, crutches and all, and made a beeline for the kitchen when he didn’t see any of his teammates – or his girlfriend – around.

They weren’t in the common area though, either, and Wally surmised Bats had probably sent them off already. Being incapacitated like he was, the speedster couldn’t very well join them on their missions. It sucked. Royally.

But, at least he could use the time to catch up on his college work. Juggling the superhero gig with being a – somewhat – mature, responsible student was proving more difficult than Wally would have guessed. He was almost grateful to Bane for breaking his ankle and handing him all this time.

_Almost._

Stacking more meat and tomatoes onto his sandwich, Wally found himself pondering not quite for the first time, what life would be like if he wasn’t being a hero after all.

_Stupid thought, Wall-man… Being Kid Flash is the best gig you could ever have asked for. Not that you_ asked _, per se, but…_

With a shrug, clinging to the corner of his sandwich while he occupied his hands with manoeuvring his crutches, Wally made his way to a couch and flopped down.

It was great being free of missions and having all this extra time to catch up, keep up and actually _do_ some work he, oddly, hadn’t had time for the past couple of weeks, if only he’d get off his lazy butt and actually do it.

Since he shared a dorm room with Victor and half the football team when the jock felt like it, it was hard to super-speed his way through coursework like he’d done homework in high school. Evening missions turning into late nights or early mornings out, had him feeling more beat than he’d ever been before, and behind on his self-studies to boot.

This was the perfect opportunity to catch up. However, at the moment, Wally’s cast was itchy, his stomach was full, and he was still feeling deflated over yesterday’s missed test. Or…was that the day before yesterday?

To top off his sullen mood, he hadn’t seen Artemis _all day_. She’d texted him to cancel some appointment Wally couldn’t remember they even _had_ , anyway, saying she was sorry a million times, but it was mission related and couldn’t be helped. She promised to make it up to him, and Wally, not in the mood to spend the rest of his afternoon with Mister Victory football jock who still desperately wanted help on his essay, had said he’d just meet Arty in the cave after their mission.

He probably should have brought some work to do in hindsight, after all, though…

_Too late now…_ Wally stretched his arms, yawned so his jaw cracked, and settled more comfortably against the couch’s cushions. He shut his eyes, intent on a nap. Artemis would probably be back by the time he woke up.

When Wally did wake up, bleary-eyed and yawning, it was Dick he found, at the end of the couch next to his plaster-covered foot, a marker in his hand.

“Dude,” Wally mumbled, propping himself upright with his arms and raising an eyebrow at the sixteen year old.

“I’m decorating,” the teen shrugged, pointing at Wally’s cast with the marker. The Boy Wonder had been doodling black bats all over it.

“ _Duuuude_ ,” Wally moaned, and glared at his friend.

“Wha-at?” Dick chuckled, stretching the word through his laughter. “You know you’re a fan,” he stuck out his tongue.

“You’re too old for this,” Wally muttered, reaching over swiftly to snatch the marker from Dick’s hand where the boy had pressed it against Wally’s cast again, having ignored his friend’s glare completely.

But, getting a better look at his cast, and, mostly more awake now, Wally paused at the sight of bright pink writing. Artemis’s handwriting.

Ignoring Dick’s indignant _“Dude,”_ Wally moved his leg to get a better look. His lips moved soundlessly as he read—

_Happy Valentine’s Day_

“It’s Valentine’s Day?!” Wally exclaimed, feeling mortified at having forgotten – _again_.

Dick, ever the little troll, laughed at him, “You forgot? _Again?_ ” he ignored Wally’s scowl – if he even saw it. It was hard to tell with him wearing sunglasses. “Geez, I wonder why Arty keeps up with you, dude.”

“Mind your own batwings,” Wally snapped, shoving the younger boy roughly by the shoulder.

Dick just laughed, checking his watch as he did so. “Technically, it _was_ Valentine’s Day.”

Wally groaned, and lay back down. He sighed hopelessly and Dick took the opportunity to steal back the marker and return to his doodling, drawing bird-like shapes this time.

“Don’t sweat it, Wally,” he said with an encouraging smile, swapping his black marker for a blue one instead. “Maybe you’ll remember next year.”

Wally shrugged, sighed, and, still tired, shut his eyes and went back to sleep.


	30. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch4

_Happy Valentine’s Day Cookies._

**MOUNT JUSTICE**

**February 14, 17:16 EST**

**_Team Year Four_ **

Dick watched as Artemis took the last batch out of the oven. Biting her bottom lip, watching the tray somewhat apprehensively, he thought, she set it down on the counter.

Dick, leaning with his crossed arms on the counter, one leg tucked under him where he sat on a stool, took an experimental whiff.

Artemis watched him expectantly, raising her eyebrows when he finally looked over at her.

“Well…” he said carefully. “They don’t smell _too_ burnt,” he ventured with a half-hearted smile.

Artemis groaned, shoulders slumping a little, her thick lips frowning as she glanced over to a pile of baked un-goodness stacked onto a plate in the corner.

The previous…couple of hundred, batches hadn’t turned out excitingly well. Dick had come in around the time she’d pulled out some of her more recent tries and, seeing her reject-pile, had whipped up the icing sugar and started decorating all the ones that seemed salvageable in an attempt to lift her spirit.

Artemis had insisted on one last, fresh try, though.

“Maybe they taste better than they look,” Dick suggested with half a shrug, pointedly not looking at Artemis in case she scowled at him for that, though he hadn’t even added “this time,” before he reached over with one hand for a cookie.

She slapped him before he could make it though, and when he looked up at her he found she’d pulled off the oven mitts and apron, was dropping them discreetly onto the floor, her eyes on something past the ex-Boy Wonder’s head.

Footsteps met his ears then, and Dick quickly sat comfortably back like he’d never meant to test one of his best friend’s cookies, resting his chin in one hand while he was at it.

He heard Artemis mutter, “They’ll just have to do,” under her breath, and he shot her a warm, encouraging smile.

She scowled at him instead of returning it, “Shouldn’t you _leave_?” she hissed quietly.

“I’m not missing this,” he replied in the same whispered tone, unsuccessful in taming a wide grin.

She rolled her eyes.

He wiped the look from his face the moment Wally slid into a stool to his right though, leaning against the counter with his back half turned to Artemis. It was more Wally’s appearance that had caused Dick’s grin to vanish, though, than the need to hide the surprise (which, despite being _Wally_ , the speedster hadn’t noticed yet).

“Dude,” Dick said. “You look awful.”

Wally, his head tilted toward his shoulder, eyes half lidded, nodded feebly, “I _feel_ awful,” his friend droned, and Dick shared a glance with Artemis. Wally’s hair was dishevelled – heavy on the _dis_ – his open short-sleeved shirt pulled on askew over the white long-sleeved one, and Dick noticed his shoelaces were untied.

“What happened?” Artemis asked, concerned, weaving her fingers through the ginger’s hair. Wally’s head came up at once, a smile creeping onto his face.

“Babe,” he said wistfully, turning to look at her over his shoulder, grinning goofily.

He’d sped off his stool and was at her side in a matter of seconds, one hand around her waist, his lips planting a kiss on her cheek.

Dick politely spied.

“I didn’t even see you there,” Wally confessed, and then his eyes finally fell on the cookies in the tray. “Oh! Cookies!”

He’d hardly _looked_ at them before he swiped one off the tray, never mind they probably hadn’t properly cooled off yet, and sped back to his seat looking decidedly chirpier than when he’d entered the room.

“So, where is M’gann anyway?” Wally asked, oblivious to the fact he’d never even answered Artemis’s question. “Leaving her delectable goodies alone with _you two_ ,” he teased, giving them each a pointed grin. Then he popped the cookie whole into his mouth.

Dick wasn’t sure which expression to feature. Some sympathy for his best friend’s over-zealous cookie eating habits, because he couldn’t imagine that tasting much better than any of the previous attempts. There was also sympathy at what he’d said.

Dick couldn’t help his visible wince at Wally’s assumption of M’gann, and he hadn’t missed the way Artemis’s lips gathered in one corner of her mouth as she frowned.

There was also the desire to shake his head and roll his eyes at what Wally had said, too – was the speedster _really_ that oblivious?

“Gah!” the redhead exclaimed several super-sped chews later, clapping a hand over his mouth, his eyes shut tight and his nose wrinkled unpleasantly. He swallowed hard and lowered his hand, shuddering.

“Megs is obviously trying a new recipe,” he coughed a little, cringing. “It’s not really working.”

“ _Megs_ ,” Artemis said tightly, making Dick flinch. _Oh boy._

“Yeah,” Wally said easily and Dick concluded he really _was_ that oblivious, not recognizing his girlfriend’s tone _at all_. “Megs, Megan, M’gann, Miss M, Miss Martian,” he stuck out a hand at a random spot beside his head. “Yay high, freckles, little green around the cheeks…” Dick realized Wally was teasing, by the sound of his voice and the way one corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk.

He’d noticed her tone, after all then, but he was grossly misinterpreting it, trying in vain to lighten the mood.

He picked up another cookie, too quick to have given it a real decent look, and, stupidly, in a way that had him looking at the burnt bottom instead of the barely readable words of icing sugar on top that _may_ have helped him out here.

“Resident chef,” he continued, frowning. “Though her baking totally needs some work with these…” he looked like he might try another one anyway though.

Dick, meanwhile, was trying to shoot Artemis meaningful glances to signal she should calm down a little – this was _Wally_ , after all, and that alone was enough reason to hand him the benefit of the doubt. In spades, this time, because Wally _really_ had no idea. Dick could tell. No idea about _anything_.

He felt pretty bad for Artemis, but with his ever-present shades it was hard to get her attention short of waving his hands around – and Wally would certainly notice _that_ , at least.

“So you _hate_ the cookies?” Artemis growled through grit teeth, glaring daggers at the one Wally held between his fingers. Dick got the impression she was trying really hard not to glare at Wally – she probably didn’t want him to see she was mad, but she couldn’t help being mad either.

Dick’s shoulders slumped.

“Don’t tell M’gann that,” Wally replied, with a shrug and a half-hearted smile, looking up from the cookie he’d been eyeing critically. They were supposed to be heart-shaped, but every batch had come out horridly disfigured.

Wally recoiled, seeing Artemis’s thunderous expression.

“Argh – one tries to do something _nice_ for you!” she exclaimed, exasperated, though there was a distinct note of defeat in her tone as well. She flung her arms in the air as she spoke, and then, for good measure Dick figured, casually flipped over the tray on the counter, sending cookies flying.

She stomped out the room with an indignant cry, strangling the air.

Wally’s jaw had dropped at some point, and he sat staring after his girlfriend, attracting flies for nearly a minute before he sputtered, “W-what did I do?”

Dick, who had watched Artemis stomp off as well, had stayed seated with his eyes on the doorway just like Wally’s, waiting patiently for his friend’s brain to catch up.

He whipped around to face the redhead then, scowling, “Dude, what’s the matter with you? You pissed her off, that’s what you did.”

Wally recoiled again, mouth working without words coming out for the briefest of moments before he finally managed, “Me? What’s the matter with _you_?” Wally shot back pointlessly.

“Tch,” Dick clicked his tongue, waved a hand, and opened his mouth to say something, but was unexpectedly cut off.

“You said ‘pissed’,” Jason stated, materialising behind the counter where Artemis had been standing, startling Wally so bad the speedster nearly fell backwards off his stool.

“Don’t repeat that,” Dick warned, pointing a finger at the younger boy, at the same time Wally muttered, “Freaking Robins.”

Jason shrugged carelessly, eyeing a cookie he might have gotten off the floor. “I’m just saying. Agent A wouldn’t like that…”

Dick rolled his eyes, “Like you’re going to tell him. Pfft,” but when he’d looked back at his – as he’d so affectionately come to think of him – little brother, the new Robin was gone.

He shared a glance with Wally, who shrugged. “At least he’s got that down.”

“What I was trying to say,” Dick started. “Artemis—”

“I don’t even _know_!” Wally interrupted, raising his arms and gesturing helplessly at the exit. “I came here to _see her_. Zeta tube’s down, I had to _run_. _All. The way. Here_. And not even in my uniform, either. My feet _hurt_ , if you’ll believe that. My hair’s a mess,” he ran his free hand through his tousled do for emphasis, “I am sweating, _like a pig_ , and I am _hungry_! Now my girlfriend’s _pissed_ , as you so eloquently put it, and I wasn’t even talking about her! And it’s not like Megs would have been _totally offended_ by what I said either – constructive criticism, she likes that—”

Dick just rolled his eyes, unable to help it.

“ _Why_ are they _so_ bad, anyway?” Wally exclaimed, eyeing the one he still had in his hand. He wasn’t expecting an answer though, continuing his lament without waiting on one, “I come to the cave after a long, _awful_ day, to see my girlfriend, but now she’s mad at me for who knows—” _I know…_ Dick thought, slapping a hand to his forehead and dragging it across his face until his chin rested in his palm again. “—what reason, and I’m hungry, and all there is to eat apparently, are these _terrible_ ,” Wally turned the cookie this way and that, finally noticing the sugary words. He squinted at them, “‘Happy Valentine’s Day’…cookies…” he trailed off, realisation dawning on his features. “ _Oh_.”

The speedster suddenly sat a little straighter, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped again.

He shifted his green eyes in Dick’s direction and the previous Boy Wonder flashed him a sympathetic little smile.

“Dude,” he said slowly, quietly. “Tell me I didn’t.”

Dick cringed, shrugged at his best friend and lowered his sunglasses a little so Wally could see his eyes, “Sorry, dude. You totally did.”

Wally’s face fell, and then, with a desperate little moan, the fastest kid alive bolted off his seat, sending his cookie flying.

Reflexively, Dick reached out to catch it, turning around in his seat just in time to see his best friend speeding down the corridor beyond the doorway and around a corner.

“ ** _Artemiiiiiiiiiiissssss!!!_** ”

Barely a few seconds later he swiftly appeared again, running in the opposite direction only to trip over his untied laces, though that barely deterred him from jumping up and running off again.

Dick smiled, chuckling and shaking his head.

Absently, he bit into the cookie he still held, only to splutter and spit it out again inelegantly – heavy on the _in_ , but it was better than the alternative. The foul taste would stick to his tongue and the inside of his cheek for another hour at least, despite a fervent attempt to mask it with better tastes.

Dick stared at the cookie, appalled, “ _What_ are you?!”

A high-pitched, blatantly amused cackled echoed around the room.

Dick scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason! <3  
> XP


	31. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch5

_Blue Punch Buggy._

**PALO ALTO**

**February 14, 13:58 PST**

**_Team Year Five_ **

Artemis Crock stood just outside her and Wally’s apartment, one hand on the staircase’s railing, the other on her hip, her lips gathered into a frown as she waited – somewhat impatiently.

 _Honestly, how long does it take_ the fastest kid alive _to fetch a car!_

She rolled her eyes, sighing. She would have gone back inside to wait, but she was half convinced that he’d show up the instant she made herself comfortable on the couch. Besides, he’d said he was only five minutes away. She glanced at her watch. That was ten minutes ago.

And then, _at last_ , a blue beetle pulled up next to the sidewalk, and Wally West climbed out of the driver’s seat, grinning at her over the top of the car.

Artemis raised an eyebrow. _That_ was the car he’d been so excited about? He’d gone on all week refusing to tell her anything about it, insisting it was a surprise, and, frankly, Artemis had expected something a little more… _flashy_.

She smiled – a little bemused, she wouldn’t admit – at him anyway and picked up one of their suitcases. Wally skipped up the stairs to greet her with a kiss, still grinning even as he did so.

“ _Well_?” Wally said excitedly, taking the proffered suitcase and gesturing back at the car with his free hand. “What do you think?”

She leaned a little sideways to peer around him at the vehicle. “It’s…like a modern punch buggy.”

Wally’s face fell a little at her unenthusiastic response. “Well, yeah…but, it’s a reliable car. Even if it does, you know, invoke a friendly punch-fest. Which reminds me!” his grin returned, and his free hand coming around, fingers curled into a fist.

But Artemis beat him to it, stopping him short as she hit his arm. His grin fell, and he gaped at her, dismayed.

“Blue punch buggy,” she deadpanned, her face as serious as she could make it.

Wally scowled good-naturedly, a challenge hidden in his green eyes, and Artemis knew she’d started something now. They’d be picking out punch buggies for the next day and a half no doubt.

“No punch-back,” she added, crossing her middle and forefinger in front of his face.

He glared at her, “You spoil my fun.”

She grinned triumphantly at him, “My prerogative, Babe.”

“Heh,” he smiled. “Yeah, says you.”

He snatched up their other suitcases before Artemis could, and hobbled down the narrow staircase with the bags held in front of him, the third tucked under one outstretched arm, in an accurate interpretation of Frankenstein’s monster.

“So, do you really not like it?” Wally asked, seriously this time, as Artemis joined him next to the sleek blue vehicle wherein he was stuffing their cases. She handed him her vanity case to load as well.

She shrugged, “It’s…kind of adorable, really.”

“‘Adorable?’” Wally scoffed. “I want it more to say – ‘reliable,’ ‘dependable,’ _maybe_ a little ‘quirky,’ but also ‘inconspicuous,’ should the need arise. Basically just, it’s not meant to be ‘cute,’ it’s meant to be ‘sturdy.’”

Artemis snorted, “Sure, Baywatch,” she teased, lightly punching him in the gut. He faked a grunt and a wounded expression, but Artemis only laughed, making her way up to the passenger door.

She cleared her throat, “Well, are we still leaving _today_?”

He smiled, and came up beside her all proper-like to open the door. He even bowed a little, “ _M’lady_.”

Artemis laughed, and got inside, comfortably sinking back against the seat. It _was_ pretty comfortable.

Wally joined her a second later, and started up his ride, warning her to buckle-up even as she did so.

The radio came on as Wally pulled into the road and Artemis realized he was listening to some old CD she wasn’t fond of.

Wally started talking though, relating his trip to the old croon’s who’d sold him the car, and Artemis ignored the music in favour of listening to his story and stealing heart-shaped candy from the cubbyhole.

She offered him one, and Wally popped it in his mouth without a second thought.

Sometime later they were on the outskirts of town, and Wally was reminding her to let her mom know they’d left home. She pulled out her phone to relay the message and caught sight of the date just before returning the device to her pocket.

Artemis glanced sideways at Wally, who’d started talking about something else again.

She’d decided to stop saying “Happy Valentine’s Day” first, because all it did was leave Wally wallowing with guilt and regret at having forgotten, which he’d developed a habit for doing, and, after the incident with the cookies she’d messed up so badly, Artemis didn’t feel like experiencing a repeat of Wally’s sullen mood.

It’s not that he ignored Valentine’s Day on purpose, Artemis reflected, it was just that it kind of passed him by without Wally thinking about it. Kid Flash and their never-ending missions took up most of their time, in addition to college amongst other things, and Artemis doubted Wally and Dick spent days beforehand devising romantic plans to impress their girlfriends with.

Dick was probably more concerned with how to avoid his girlfriends, anyway.

Moreover, there was very little nowadays to remind Wally that it was Valentine’s. He barely watched television unless it was the news. And apparently he didn’t bother with the radio either. If he hadn’t been listening to his own silly tunes, he’d have said happy Valentine’s before he asked her what she thought of the car.

Artemis sighed, sinking deeper into the seat, closing her eyes. It didn’t really matter, she decided. If they skipped Valentine’s Day for the rest of their lives, they’d hardly _really_ be missing out on anything. They both already knew how much they cared for each other. They’d always known.

“Babe?” Wally asked, glancing at her, but Artemis waved his concern away without opening her eyes.

“I’m just taking a nap.”

“Oh. Okay. Sweet dreams,” he said, a smile in his tone.

She smiled too.

Artemis was happy to actually fall genuinely asleep for most of the ride, since it meant she didn’t have to listen to Wally’s music, which was repeating itself by the time she woke up for the third time during their ride. Only, this time, she wasn’t going back to sleep, and Wally’s music was giving her a headache.

“Wally,” she said at last, a little exasperated, as she sat upright and opened the cubbyhole. “Don’t you have _anything_ else to listen to?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly.

She eyed him askance, frowning, but returned to rummaging through the compartment without commenting.

“Ah-ha!” she exclaimed at last, discovering one of her CD’s in a case along with one of Wally’s. “Finally some _decent_ music,” she mumbled, exchanging his CD for hers.

“‘Decent’?” Wally chided playfully. “ _Babe_ ,” he moaned with mock frustration, as her CD started up. “I love you, but your taste in music kind of sucks,” he reached for the radio with a tentative finger, “Let’s find out what’s in the news, rather, hey?”

He grinned at her, pressing the button for the radio, switching from her loud music to the soft melodic sounds of _Your Song_.

Wally’s grin slipped from his face the moment his eyes met hers, though, even as he pressed the button. His gaze only lingered for a moment before he had to go back to watching the road again, however. “Artemis?” he said uncertainly. “What’d I say?”

He glanced at her, and Artemis promptly shut her mouth and turned away.

She’d been staring at him, her heart suddenly beating three times faster in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat.

“ _Artemis_?” he repeated, a little more forcefully, and Artemis shook her head – in reply so much as to snap herself out of it.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing, I just…haven’t heard that song in a while…”

She saw him frowning at her, pensively, from the corner of her eye and knew he hadn’t bought it.

She looked pointedly out the window, where the sun was setting in the distance, casting the horizon in a solemn orange glow.

It was ridiculous, she told herself. All kinds of parts of it, for all kinds of reasons.

For all that they’d been together for more than three years, finally sharing an apartment, getting a dog…neither one of them had ever _actually told_ the other…well, the L-word is what she called it in her head.

On the one hand, it had never felt particularly _necessary_. The perfect moment to say it never seemed to crop up anyway. There were plenty of moments for kissing, and cuddling, and embracing and making out, and flirting, but…even in the midst of all that, ‘I love you’ had never come up.

Not even after particularly dangerous missions, leaving them battered, bruised and half-broken in each other’s arms. And then they’d cry a little, and kiss, and kiss some more after they’d healed.

Sometimes, Artemis thought they were saying it with kisses rather than words. The L-kisses.

The I.L.Y-kisses.

Wally was the longest, most stable, secure relationship she’d ever had, in all of her life – thus far. Part of her sometimes thought she desperately _wanted_ to tell him she loved him, because she was honestly, sincerely convinced most days that she did. The words just wouldn’t make their way past the massive lump in her throat, though, and she’d end up kissing him instead.

He’d grin, goofily, and kiss her back. Sometimes, Artemis thought, in a way that was meant to tell her he knew exactly what she was struggling with, that he understood, and he was trying to tell her the same thing, he just didn’t know how to either.

Artemis wasn’t sure he’d ever been that serious with a girl before.

Sometimes, she just didn’t _want_ to tell him, in case she jinxed it and he left her.

Hadn’t she told her mother she loved her? Hadn’t she said it to Jade? Hadn’t she even thought it about her no-good father, said as much at some point, only to have all three of them drop out of her life within heartbeats of each other? Or, so it felt anyway.

Her mom came back, at least. Jade was too much of a wild card to be trusted to stay put, and of course she hadn’t. And her father… _well_. No comment on that. He was _never_ coming back.

But Wally…she didn’t want Wally to leave.

She hadn’t wanted Wally to say it any more than she’d wanted to say it either. If he did, he’d expect her to say it back – they’d been together for _years_ , after all, how could she _not_ love him – but what if she couldn’t? What if the words wouldn’t come? What if she couldn’t explain? He’d figure she didn’t love him after all, and why would he stay with her then?

He wouldn’t. He’d leave her. Never knowing how she felt, because she hadn’t been able to tell him.

…Or – or what if he said it, but didn’t really mean it? What if he’d just blurted it out, just then, just now, the way he declared his undying love and devotion to Chicken Whizzies – as meaningless as it was careless?

Would that be worse, Artemis wondered.

It certainly felt worse. If she hadn’t reacted with such surprise, Wally could have shrugged it off and Artemis could have pretended she’d never heard, but now he knew something was wrong, and they’d have to talk about it.

If he didn’t really love her…she’d be broken, and they’d fall apart eventually. And if he did, and she didn’t say it back, they’d fall apart that much sooner.

“ _Shit_ ,” Wally said fervently, unexpectedly, startling Artemis into nicking her bottom lip, having been chewing on it absently. She licked at it, tasting blood, as she eyed Wally from the corner of her eye. He’d flicked on the turn light and was pulling onto the side of the road.

It was eerily quiet when he shut off the car.

Artemis caught her lip between her teeth again. _This is stupid, Artemis. You’re a grown woman. Quit thinking like an idiot._ Probably this had nothing to do with any of that. Wally just suddenly had a revelation he needed to stop for – like maybe he realised something was wrong with his second-hand bug after all, and they had to drive back six hours to return it and buy plane tickets to Gotham instead.

Besides, she chided herself, Wally wouldn’t leave her. What had she been thinking? He’d said so a million times. What was ‘I love you’ nowadays anyway?

“Artemis,” Wally started, a somewhat panicked note to his voice, and when he continued he was almost speed-talking, turning in his seat to face her properly, “I’m _so_ sorry – I did _not_ mean that.”

Her head whipped up to face him before she had sense enough to stop, just nod and let it slide rather, tell him it didn’t matter. But then she was looking at him, not sure at all of what she was supposed to say to _that_. He’d even _apologized_ for saying it!

Artemis wasn’t sure of half the feelings churning inside of her, except that one was definite disappointment and another felt like severe _grief_ and _heartache_ —

He must have seen some of it in her eyes, because he recoiled, blinking, and then both of his hands shot up, waving this way and that in protest, “No, no, I mean – I _meant_ it, of course, really, I just didn’t mean to say it like _that_.”

Her grief and heartache was inexplicably replaced with dread at the sound of that, a bundle of nerves growing restlessly in her stomach, and still she had no idea what to say.

Wally was still talking, thankfully, “I really _did_ mean it, I just didn’t mean to say it that way – so…so _casually_. I just blurted it out, and that’s not how you do it. I was going to say it – I-I’ve always been going to, the timing just always seemed off,” he shrugged, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke, but his eyes slipping on and off of hers nervously, colour rising in his cheeks. “And-and if I was ever going to do it, which I was, I meant to have you at a nice restaurant, with champagne or something, and candlelight, all romantic. Or – or I’d say it on Valentine’s Day, _at least_ —”

Artemis barked a laugh at that, unable to help herself, and Wally blinked, surprised. Artemis quickly shut her mouth, swallowing the smile that threatened to form at her oblivious boyfriend’s expense.

Wally smiled at her, though, all the tension seemingly having drained out of him, his shoulders slumped now, his posture relaxed.

She swallowed, and looked away from his gaze, feeling a blush cover her cheeks.

Around them, the inside of Wally’s blue punch buggy was turning increasingly darker as the day’s light continued to fade, the car’s speedometer lights shining as bright a green as Wally’s eyes.

“Artemis,” he said quietly, in that rare serious tone he sometimes got. He reached up, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. “I…” she kept her eyes pointedly averted, feeling increasingly stupid at doing so, but she couldn’t manage looking up at him either. “I…” she heard him stop a second time, to swallow audibly and suck in a quick gasp of air, “I love you,” he whispered, somewhat breathlessly.

Plucking up courage from somewhere unknown, Artemis spied him through her lashes, chewing at her bottom lip again, still not sure of what to say.

He spared her an attempt at speaking though, leaning in a little closer, a little lower, to look properly into her eyes. “You don’t have to say it back. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like you to,” he added quickly, the corners of his mouth quirking up for a moment, “But you don’t have to if you’re not ready. I get it. It’s a lot harder than I made it sound the first time,” he shrugged. “Just, you know…just kiss me again. That’s the best reply to almost anything,” he grinned, and a laugh escaped through her lips unbidden.

She shook her head, breathed, “Wally…”

He had his seatbelt unbuckled in half a second and was kissing her in another.

“I love you, too,” she choked when he broke the kiss, surprising herself, but saying it so quietly she was torn between hoping and fearing that he’d heard.

His forehead resting comfortably against hers, his hand in her neck with his thumb gently rubbing her cheek, Wally grinned. “I know, Babe,” he whispered. “I’ve always known.”


	32. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch6

_This Valentine’s Day Thing._

**MOUNT JUSTICE**

**February 14, 18:48 EST**

**_Team Year One_ **

Bouncing excitedly from one foot to another, practically vibrating, Wally West pulled item after item from the bag on the floor, placing them in a neat row on the kitchen counter.

Unbeknownst to him, his teammates – Robin, Megan, Conner, Kaldur and Zatanna – were just outside one of the doors, periodically peering into the room to see what he was doing.

M’gann was grinning expectantly, happy and excited to be partaking in this interesting Earth tradition. They didn’t have Valentine’s Days on Mars and whilst television referenced and displayed the holiday well-enough, M’gann knew – and had the point reiterated by Robin – that things didn’t really work out the way television suggested.

That was true enough.

In school that morning she’d seen plenty of different Valentine’s celebrations and traditions television didn’t do justice.

One student had serenaded another in the middle of class (badly, to his misfortune, and he ended up sent to the principal’s office for disrupting the lesson – on the bright side, the girl seemed somehow impressed), anonymous letters had been passed around and Megan had even gotten a few herself, and there was to be a dance over the weekend to celebrate as well.

M’gann had even gotten her and Conner tickets. He was still munching contently on the red velvet cupcake she’d bought him, and she was wearing his red rose in her hair.

Kaldur seemed stoic as he always did, arms comfortably at his sides, standing straight and rigid as a board, partaking in their spying because he either wanted to make sure they didn’t pull some prank and ruin Wally’s surprise while they were at it, or because he had nothing better to do, _or_ , M’gann believed, because he was actually, in fact, enjoying himself.

Robin and Zatanna stood right next to the doorway, and were doing most of the peering in a discreet, inconspicuous manner, sticking as close to each other as they were to the wall. Though M’gann wasn’t entirely certain what was going on there, Zatanna _had_ disclosed to her, in confidence of course, that Robin had asked her to be his Valentine, if nothing else.

“Here we go,” Robin whispered, pulling his head back and slumping against the wall as he started typing away at his wrist computer’s holographic keyboard.

M’gann and the others gathered curiously around the Boy Wonder, as he pulled up a projection of the mission room’s security camera.

_Recognized: Artemis B-07._

They watched the bright yellow light from the zeta tube fade until only Artemis, dressed in her green uniform, remained.

Wally was right in front of her not even a second later, probably grinning, “Hey, Beautiful,” he said, trying to sound casual, but unable to keep the excitement from his tone.

“Hi, Wally…” Artemis replied, sounding somewhat cautious, having caught on to Wally’s tone.

M’gann swallowed a giggle – caution was the right response to have. The last time Wally looked that excited, he and Robin nearly blew up the entire kitchen.

“I have something for you,” Wally said. “But it’s a surprise,” and he held up the blindfold he’d been clutching in one hand, spreading it out in front of her, “So you have to…” he trailed off suggestively.

Artemis groaned, “Wally…you know I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like _this one_ ,” he wheedled. “I promise. Come on, _please_? Trust me.”

Artemis let out a strangled sigh, throwing back her head in exasperation, but she shrugged anyway, giving in. “Fine.”

Wally held up the blindfold as Artemis closed her eyes patiently, but the speedster shifted it this way and that, coming up against Artemis’s ponytail at the back of her head and realizing he didn’t have room enough to tie it off.

“Er…”

“What now?” Artemis’s eyes opened and she raised an eyebrow at the redhead.

“You have a lot of hair,” Wally said bluntly. “How do you even manage with _that_ much hair? You ever thought of cutting it?”

Artemis rolled her eyes, “Wally—”

“Sorry-sorry,” he said quickly, holding up a hand defensively. “I kid, I kid – your hair is great. The longer the better – a few more years you could be a real-life Rapunzel. It’s even blonde, too—”

“Give me that,” Artemis snapped, snatching the blindfold from him and tying it herself, managing easily.

Wally stood silent for a second before he mumbled, “How did you do that?”

“So, where is this surprise?” Artemis asked, her minor impatience with the speedster apparently evaporated.

Wally wasted no time scooping Artemis into his arms. “Hold on,” he grinned.

He ran off at super-speed, and Robin shut off the computer in favour of watching the real thing.

M’gann, using her telekinesis, lifted her and Superboy into the air where they could hover above Kaldur’s head to peer around the doorframe.

Robin was practically on his stomach, Zatanna leaning over him, and Kaldur standing, peering over her head as they each claimed a spot to see from.

Wally burst into the room, depositing Artemis unceremoniously into a stool by the counter. “Okay. Now, sit still,” he instructed, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. “Okay,” he took a breath, taking a measured step back, but not letting go of her. “Aaaannnd—”

With a yelp from his girlfriend, Wally had shoved hard at her shoulders, sending her stool into a quick spin. Mindful of her blonde ponytail, Wally pushed on the stool, on her arm, nearly at super-speed to make her go faster once or twice, laughing even as she yelled at him, “ _Wallyyyy—!_ ”

Watching from the doorway, the Team gave a collective little sigh, and M’gann resisted the urge to slap her hand to her forehead.

Not ten seconds later though, Wally forced Artemis to a stop, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“Wally—” she started again, sounding decidedly furious.

Wally chuckled half-heartedly, “ _Sorry_ ,” he said, abashed, “I couldn’t help it.”

“If _this_ is your surprise – it sucks.”

“No, no-no-no-no,” Wally said quickly, and spun her around so she faced the counter once more, oblivious to her little squawk at the unexpected action. “ _This_ ,” he cleared his throat formally, and then frowned at the back of her head. “This is my surprise…” he said somewhat uncertainly, looking for the knot in the blindfold, but not seeing it. He sped around the counter so he was on the other side, facing her instead, and pinched the fabric between his fingers.

“Artemis,” he said seriously, slipping the blindfold up and off her eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day…”

Artemis’s lips parted in surprise, and she stared, first at Wally for the briefest moment, before she looked down at the counter.

Arranged before her sat an array of cookies, pink heart shapes decorating every other one, their paper plates cut out into rough heart shapes as well. A pretty wine glass was filled with cranberry juice, a scented candle burned a strawberry fragrance into the air, and a small white teddy bear sat in the centre of it all, a red ribbon attached to one ear.

“Wally…” Artemis breathed. “I…”

“I figured your old one could do with a girlfriend,” Wally teased, picking up the white bear and holding it out to her.

Artemis glanced at him.

Wally’s face fell, “You don’t like it?”

She shook her head, “No – _no_. It’s not that, I just… I… forgot,” she said. “I didn’t get _you_ anything.”

Wally blinked, surprised, but then his face split into a grin. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Babe,” he shrugged, speeding around to come up next to her. “I don’t mind.”

“But… Wally,” Artemis said, getting up from the stool. “It’s our _first_ Valentine’s Day together. Isn’t it supposed to be…‘special,’ you know?”

Wally appeared to ponder that a moment, before he set down the bear and grabbed the plate of cookies instead, “We could eat these _special_ cookies,” he joked. “Or, you could give me your half,” he grinned. “That’d be pretty special.”

Artemis chuckled, “Sure. You can have them.”

“I was kidding,” Wally smiled, trading the plate for Artemis’s waist instead.

She settled her arms comfortably around his neck in return. “I am making this up to you. Next year, I’ll…I’ll bake _you_ some cookies.”

“Looking forward to it, Beautiful,” Wally grinned, leaning in for a kiss.

Smiling, M’gann looked down at Conner, who was smiling back up at her, too. She pecked him on the cheek.

This Valentine’s Day thing was turning out to be a lot of fun.


	33. What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? ch7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 14 Feb 2015.

_Spitfire._

**PALO ALTO**

**February 14, 23:48 PST**

**_Team Year Seven_ **

Artemis was down on her knees, scrubbing vigorously at the red striped carpet underfoot. Dirty soapsuds clung to the yellow gloves she wore, to the sponge, to the rug.

She sniffed, rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, leaving bubbles behind without noticing.

She scrubbed some more, then left behind the now shiny circle of rug to move onto the next patch.

A knock, potentially at the door, stopped her short just as she threatened the rug with a spongeful of water. But it was a quiet sound and, in the stunning silence that followed, Artemis thought she might have imagined it.

Finally, she decided she had, and took to squeezing the sponge out over the rug. Soapy liquid dropped onto the fabric and Artemis sighed. This was going to take a small eternity. But she’d started and insisted on doing the whole thing, so...she had to see it through. Or, at least try to. There were too many things she’d been leaving unfinished lately.

Another, very _distinct_ this time, knock sounded at the door and Artemis frowned up at it. It was nearly midnight, she knew – who in the world could be bothering her at this hour?

With a heavy sigh that was trying and failing not to sound annoyed, Artemis pushed herself up to her feet, leaving wet handprints on the knees of her jeans without caring. She plucked one yellow glove from her hand as she approached the door, and opened it just as another knock sounded. It ended a little feebly as she pulled the door away from one darkly gloved hand left hanging now pointlessly in the air.

Her visitor was tall, his hair as dark and lengthy as ever, a familiar-looking set of sunglasses perched on his nose despite the clear lack of sunlight.

For the shortest of moments Artemis couldn’t do much more than stare at the apparition in front of her – because it was so ridiculously _absurd_ that, of all the places to pop up, it’d be _her_ front door. Wasn’t there like a manor of people – well, alright, four, or, _two_ if you wanted to be technical – just watching the front door for any sign of his silhouette beyond the glass windows?

Artemis clicked her tongue at the grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“Who am I talking to?” she said, narrowing her eyes and raising one eyebrow at him. “You-know-who, or…secret ID You-know-who?”

He chuckled, the sound a vague, faded version of an old familiar cackled he’d been infamous for. “I think the second one,” he said, forever smiling, as he reached for his sunglasses and pulled them off his nose. His eyes were still _so_ blue. “You-know-who doesn’t walk around in civvies anymore. It’s just Dick now, sunglasses included.” He waved them back and forth before pocketing the eyewear.

“Hmp,” she snorted, but smiled as well. It was good to hear his voice. “Well, stay out there freezing, if you’d like,” she said, and stepped aside for him to enter.

“I’d like,” he replied cheekily, crossing the threshold, looking around her apartment as he did, quick blue eyes taking in everything just as they’d been trained to. Artemis took distinct notice of something as well – the way he never turned his back to her, keeping one hand out of sight.

He was turned to face her as Artemis shut the door and Dick gave her another quick once-over. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, kind of choppy-looking in their layers now, and she had a fresh tan, like she’d recently been in the sun a long time… _Probably a mission_ , he figured, but it wouldn’t have been today. The puffiness was leaving her eyes, the red rims of her dark grey orbs only detected by his blue ones because they’d been looking for it. Her jeans were dirty, and that was Wally’s sweatshirt, its sleeves rolled up and over several times so they’d stay up above her elbows. Her upper arms were wet, above where she was wearing the yellow gloves, one of them removed now to answer the door with a dry hand.

“I like your nose,” he commented, tapping the side of his own.

She frowned, wiped at her nose, removing the bubbles that had been left behind. “Hmp.”

“Spring cleaning?” he inquired with a bemused smile, raising an eyebrow at her.

Artemis scoffed, pulling off the other glove as well and dropping it into a bucket at the edge of the rug. “I spilled some wine,” she shrugged.

Dick made a face, sort of pursing his lips, sort of frowning, but he nodded like he got it, and looked down and around in search of the cleaned patch. “Across half the carpet?” he asked, seeing the spots of soapsuds from one edge towards the bucket where Artemis had been working.

Briefly she narrowed her eyes at him, unable to tell if he was being obnoxious or genuinely confused. She rolled her eyes. “It was bothering me. So I cleaned it.”

He looked back up at her with an expression that clearly said, _Across half the carpet?_

“It was too clean. It bothered me, so I decided I’d wash the whole thing,” she shrugged again, annoyed.

“Okay,” he said easily, with a shrug of his own and a quirk of his mouth.

She nodded shortly, crossed her arms and relaxed her weight onto one leg. Dick looked around a second time, not offering up anything for conversation. That was decidedly odd, Artemis figured – generally he was chattier than this.

_What are you doing_ here _, anyway?_

She’d get there, she decided, or if she didn’t, he would.

“With gloves, though – _really_?” he asked abruptly, his tone plainly amused.

Artemis glared good-naturedly at him, “ _Yes_ ,” she replied flippantly, sparing one hand a quick glance before curling up her fingers to hide her nails.

“Oh,” Dick replied, a knowing air to his voice.

With a sigh she waved him off with a hand though the air, “I’ll make coffee. You can tell me how you’ve been,” carefully not saying ‘ _where_ you’ve been’. She stuck her hands into the sweatshirt’s pockets.

“Sure,” Dick grinned, and stepped a little aside for her to pass – not that there wasn’t any room, but he was being careful not to let her see what he had behind his back. She’d noticed, too, by the roll of her eyes, which, Dick thought, she probably hadn’t thought he’d seen, but really she should have known better. Humouring him, he thought, she made her way to the kitchen ahead of him.

“I like your nails,” he commented, having seen them neatly trimmed and painted green. “It fits your skin.”

“Oh,” Artemis said shortly, watching her nails as she flicked the switch on the kettle with one finger from ‘off’ to ‘on’. Belatedly she added a mumbled, “Thanks,” and then, because it was Dick and he was _Dick_ , she felt the need to explain herself – explain that rude undertone that had crept into her voice. “Wally…” she started, haltingly, her voice almost catching in her throat as she said his name. Thinking it came a lot easier, and she’d thought on it often. But how many weeks had it been since she’d _said_ it? “Picked it out,” she trudged on, in a quiet voice. “Thought it…would look nice,” she shrugged.

“Yeah?” Dick said, just as quietly. “He…wasn’t wrong…”

Artemis didn’t add that she’d found the teal green colour a little gaudy after the first wear. She didn’t go into detail about the pathetic tearfest she’d indulged in upon finding the little bottle discarded in a drawer somewhere earlier today. She didn’t admit that she’d been wearing the yellow gloves so as not to chip her nails, because, watching her fingers on the kettle switch, she was becoming increasingly _fond_ of the colour. It was nice, and yes, it _did_ …match her skin. Just as Wally had said, too.

_I know, Arty…_ Dick thought, watching the archer’s back. She still stood as straight as ever, her shoulders back; she was regal-looking in her stance, even though she was just standing in her kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, intent on making coffee. _I was there when he picked it…_ at a flea market in Gotham on one of the rare days he and Dick got to spend time together. _…I missed him, too, but… Hm. How to go about this?_

The slobbering sound of a licking tongue, footsteps padding heavily across the wooden floor, pulled Dick from his reverie, and he turned just enough to see Artemis – and Wally’s – white dog trotting up to him, tail wagging.

“Hey, Brucie!” he grinned, genuinely happy to see the dog. He dropped down to his haunches, his free hand patting the dog’s head before his fingers took to scratching him behind the ears. _Bingo._

Artemis had turned around and crossed her arms as she leaned back against the counter, watching Dick with Brucely. That dog could sleep through _anything_. And generally did, too. Most days he didn’t bother doing more than cracking an eye to watch Artemis pass before he went right back to snoozing. When Wally was still… _well_. Well, Brucely hardly bothered getting up for him, either.

“How’ve you been, boy? Been good, have you? Took good care of Arty?” Dick chuckled.

But Dick. The dog would wake up scant minutes after his voice sounded through the apartment and come rushing out of his hidey-hole to meet the ex-Boy Wonder with enthusiastic licks and doggy-hugs.

_“Traitor,”_ Wally would scoff, grinning, and Brucely would bark as if to say he knew Wally was only kidding and he still loved him, before he went back to enjoying Dick’s tickling fingers.

Brucely – Bruce – had been exactly the right name for him.

“I bet you have,” Dick said, looking over at Artemis. _She’s still alive, after all_ , on the tip of his tongue, but his grin faltered a bit as he decided against saying those words aloud. Despite the news, it wasn’t a proper joke to be making at the moment. He got to his feet instead, pretended the sudden lack of vigour on his face was on account of his following question, “So… how _is_ Bruce? _My_ Bruce, I mean.”

“You haven’t even spoken to him yet? Or – or been home?” Artemis said, unable to keep a bite of incredulity from her tone.

Dick shrugged nonchalantly, “We’ve _spoken_. I just haven’t been to see him or anything. I had something else to do first…”

Artemis raised one delicate eyebrow at that. Behind her, the kettle stopped boiling with a soft _click_. She ignored it. “You’re gone for more than half a year – just… _off the grid_ , not a word. Then you waltz back…into our lives,” her crossed arms came undone and she shrugged with her hands in the air, stepping away from the counter. “And your very _first_ stop, isn’t your… _dad_ ,” she insisted, “It’s _me_ ,” a pause, as she left that to sink in for a second. “…Something you’d like to tell me, Dick?”

He fought not to smile, the grip behind his back tightening a little.

“Not… _tell_ ,” he replied carefully, “So much as, something to _give_ you.”

Artemis’s eyes narrowed. She’d known he knew she’d caught on to his little game. He’d been moving strategically for all of the ten or however minutes he’d been in her apartment, careful not to turn his back to her, indiscreetly hiding something behind it. _Purposely_ hiding something behind it. So she _knew_ , of course, that he _wanted_ her to comment on it. Wanted her to ask what it was.

Naturally, thus, Artemis had made a point of ignoring it. She hated being baited – something Dick was not entirely unaware of, either.

But Dick had been trained by the Batman. Manipulation was an art form and he was drowning in talent in that area. Since openly hiding the thing behind his back hadn’t been enough to entice her, or aggravating her, into asking what it was, however, he’d manipulated the conversation so the only logical, following comment she could make, _had_ to be a question – what do you have to give me? What is it? What-what-what – leading him straight to the grand reveal of whatever he was hiding. Just as he’d wanted.

Artemis scowled. She’d missed Dick.

It wasn’t that she had no more connection to the rest of the Team – M’gann was still her best friend, practically her only one, but Dick… Dick and Wally. Dick and Artemis. Dick and Artemis and Wally. The three of them had something… _else_. Some _other_ , some more…“ _special_ ” connection. After Wally…after he was gone, Artemis had almost thought she and Dick would rely a little more on each other. The old clichéd “being there” for each other bit. But he’d left. He’d left, and finding comfort with Wally’s parents had turned awkward very quickly, and Artemis was alone again. Alone with her thoughts and her memories that no one would understand, because no one knew Wally the way she had, except for Dick, maybe, but…he was gone.

Seeing him standing in her doorway—

“If I hit you,” Artemis said abruptly, deciding to ignore the bait after all. “Just _once_ , but, really _hard_ , right on the nose…would you forgive me?”

Dick blinked at her, and then laughed, doubling over once as he chuckled – cackled almost. What was with that sound? What was it doing at the edge of his laughter? Artemis hadn’t heard that youthful echo in years.  Even before Wally—

“Get in line, Arty,” he said at last, shaking his head, still smiling. “I can think of at _least_ three other people – four, if Alfred has no restraint left – who have first dibs on that,” another laugh, like he didn’t mind at all.

Artemis frowned. What was so important he needed to see her first? Before his _family_?

“Come on, Arty,” he sobered up, no longer _smiling_ , exactly, but it was hardly a frown on his handsome face, either. His eyes looked so… _serious_. “I don’t know how to bring it up. I don’t know how you’ll react. You have to ask me what it is.”

“Now I _really_ don’t want to,” Artemis mumbled under her breath, though he’d probably heard anyway. She bet his _ears_ got training, too. She sighed, rolling her eyes again – not sure if it was at him or herself, though. “How is this more important than going _home_ , Dick?” she had to ask.

“I was a little late,” he answered at once, as if he’d had it waiting in the wings. “I had to get this to you _today_ , so,” a one-shouldered shrug. “I had to stop here first. I promised.”

Well. He was nothing if not bound to his word.

“Fine,” she conceded, crossing the space between them, watching Dick’s face light up with a grin. “What do you have to give me, Dick?” amusement coloured her tone despite herself, making Dick’s grin grow even wider.

He pulled it out with a flourish to hold it up between them, right under her nose.

Artemis suddenly found herself staring at a single flower, its five scarlet-red petals brilliantly bright, framed by lily-pad shaped leaves, tied close to the flower’s stem with a thin string.

Her mouth dropped open with surprise, and she glanced up at Dick. “Who did you ‘ _promise_ ’ to bring me a flower for?” she asked incredulously, fingering a delicate petal with two fingers.

“Wally,” Dick started, and Artemis’s eyes snapped up again, watching him through her lashes suspiciously, a knot in her throat.

He swallowed, eyeing her just as carefully, but then traipsed on as intended, “…had always wanted to give you one. It’s called Spitfire.”

She slipped the flower from Dick’s fingers into her own, blinking at the hotness in her eyes. She bit her bottom lip.

_“She’s my little Spitfire, Dick,”_ she’d overheard Wally say about her once, not long after they’d started dating. He’d been whispering, sounding happily far-off. She’d paused outside the doorway, bemused at what he’d called Robin, until the Boy Wonder replied with a hiss, _“Dude – secret identity!”_

_“Duuude!”_ a clap as Wally covered his mouth at an inhuman speed. _“…Sorry…”_

_“Never mind, I don’t think anyone heard…”_

A small smile crept across Artemis’s face as she looked at the flower, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “Thanks,” she mumbled, breathing in deeply, trying hard not to think about his face, only because she didn’t want to burst into tears in front of Dick.

“Sure,” Dick replied easily, stuffing both hands into his pockets, taking a quick, discreet breath himself in anticipation of what he was about to say. “He’d have given it to you himself, if he weren’t—”

“That is _not_ funny!” she snapped at once, her voice sounding strained around the lump in her throat. She hit him against his chest, but he hardly flinched even though she’d put a fair amount of force behind the punch – wherever he’d been, he’d definitely been keeping up his training.

A throaty laugh escaped him unbidden, Dick’s lips curling into the smile he’d been trying hard to hide.

She scowled at him, making to turn around and stomp off to hide the tears that were threatening to form so much as because she wasn’t in the mood to look at him anymore. What was he thinking making jokes about Wally being—

Being _dead_. Hadn’t he been his _best friend_? What the hell?!

Dick’s hand emerged from his pocket to catch her by the arm, though, effectively stopping her in her tracks. He spoke quietly, but seriously, smiling kindly all the while though she wasn’t really looking at him, “If he weren’t on the other side of a dimensional wall.”

Artemis blinked. The what-now?

Slowly she turned her head just enough to watch his face comfortably, her grip tightening around the flower in her hand.

“Dick…” she said, her voice low, the tone somewhere between a plea and a warning, like she wasn’t sure which one she meant for it to be herself. But her eyes, dark and grey, were undoubtedly filled with a deep, desperate plea. _A ‘dimensional wall’?_ her thoughts were whirling. _What the hell does that even mean?! He’s… ‘stuck’? Like – in another dimension? Stuck, but…but **alive**? _ “If this is some kind of joke…” she whispered faintly.

Dick’s smile grew, a short delighted laugh escaping him. The faintest echo of his youthful exuberance bubbling to the fore again. “ _Arty_ ,” he implored. “I wouldn’t kid. Not about _this_ ,” he squeezed her arm, willing her to believe. “You _know_ that.”

She blinked, and the tears she’d been hopelessly trying to hold back, slipped free, trailing down her cheeks.

“You’re not…”

“I _found_ him, Arty,” Dick said, his smile finally growing again, unable to keep his elation to himself. He wanted her to know, to understand – to be _happy_ , the same way he was.

She sobbed, unable not to, and clapped her free hand over her mouth.

Dick laughed again, and pulled her closer, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders. “You… he’s… he’s not—” she sobbed against his chest.

“No, he’s not,” Dick replied. “And I’m going to bring him all the way home. I promise.”

Artemis’s reply was a cross between a sob and a laugh.

Dick grinned, squeezing her tighter, “He says happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I always meant to write more, I just never did. Maybe after season 3 :D I'll be inspired.


	34. Stitch Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a JasCas fic.  
> Also featuring Tim.
> 
> Originally posted 26 June 2014, to ffnet.

Tim chewed at his bottom lip as he concentrated, very carefully piercing pale skin with a perfectly steady hand and threading the curved needle through.

He was barely getting started on the third stitch, only just ready to puncture the other side of the yawning gap he meant to close, when the arm he was working on gave an unexpected jerk – potentially an involuntary flinch his patient had been resisting until just then – and Tim missed his mark, poking at the wound with the needle’s sharp point instead.

“Argh!” Jason exclaimed, his arm jerking again, but coming away unscathed as Tim had pulled back his hand in a rush. “The _hell_ are you doing back there?”

Tim glanced up from where he sat crouched beside the couch, Jason seated half against the armrest, half against the back so Tim could get at the gash starting at his upper arm and crossing toward his back.

Jason was scowling down at him when Tim met his eyes, but Jason’s glare could hardly faze him, truth be told. He’d been on the receiving end of it too many times for it to have an impact anymore – for one thing – and for another, it was – _all of it_ – entirely Jason’s own fault anyway.

Still, he hadn’t really meant to stab Jason with a needle, so common decency dictated he apologize – he was already starting even as Jason had snapped at him, “Sorry,” he shifted a little on his knees, sat up a little straighter. “But you need to hold still.”

“Yeah, well, it kind of stings,” Jason snapped again, but with a lot less bite this time.

“I could dig up some anaesthetic…” Tim wheedled, a little smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Jason had refused, of course, mumbled about fuzzy heads – which was not necessarily even relevant, Tim thought – and not being a baby – to which Tim had discreetly rolled his eyes when Jason wasn’t looking.

Tim could almost understand, when he thought about it, but it wasn’t every day he got to tease his pseudo older brother, though, and some demented little part of his soul he’d never admit to possessing, kind of enjoyed the look on Jay’s face whenever that happened.

Jason made a dismissive noise, “Not unless it’s booze, kid.”

Tim snorted – as if Jason was a drinker – rolled his eyes and shook his head, not missing Jason’s glance at him or the grin his brother sported at seeing his reaction. “Anyway – what’s that thing Dickiebird always gets at? ‘I took the cut – I can take the stitch’?”

“That’s the one,” Tim confirmed. “Word for word,” he finally started on the knot. “Only, this was a shot, not a cut.”

“Eh, tomato-potato,” Jason dismissed, his other hand appearing in Tim’s peripheral vision as it waved through the air – and came to rest on a coffee coloured shoulder.

Tim’s gaze shifted, his hands pausing in their work.

Dark hair bundled up against Jason’s right leg, against which she’d rested her head – presumably to take a nap; almost a week’s worth of training, following leads, chasing bad guys and getting too little sleep finally catching up on her.

When he’d heard – very faintly – Cassandra shifting on the couch earlier he’d assumed as much. Only, he’d also assumed she’d lain down in the other direction. Busying himself with the First Aid on the floor next to him at the time, he hadn’t seen. Hadn’t thought about it. So engrossed in his work, he hadn’t even considered – why would he?

Because he was supposed to be the damn Detective. That’s why.

Hadn’t considered Jason’s hand on her shoulder, either, and the image – Jason’s fingertips trailing absently a little this way and that across her skin – was somehow mindboggling and fascinating and incredibly weird all at the same time.

“What?” Jason’s voice snapped Tim from his daze, genuine perplexity in the older man’s tone as if he had no idea what Tim was seeing. Jason’s fingers slowed to a halt just as Tim whipped his head about to look up at the man with his dark brows raised in waiting.

“What ‘what’? Nothing,” Tim asked and answered in a rush, ducking his head and getting back to his stitching.

But he could feel Jason’s confused gaze still aimed at him, turning into another annoyed scowl and Tim knew it was dawning on him.

“Y’know, Baby-bird,” he bristled. “If you have something to say, I’d really rather you just get it off your chest.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tim replied almost mechanically, almost unintentionally, poising the needle to start on the next suture.

There was a snort and a sound that may have been the start of some jibe or another, but Jason cut himself off abruptly and Tim figured he’d caught on to the meaning of the reprimand.

‘Baby-bird’ was a title no longer belonging to him, and he had no right to go back to it even if he was, technically, back to being the ‘baby’ of the once Robins.

Tim was almost done with his stitch when Jason said, just above a whisper, “…Sorry.”

Tim didn’t know what to say to that though, didn’t feel like conjuring up a reply even if he could, because really, he just didn’t want to broach the subject and whatever feelings it might end up stirring.

He figured Jason didn’t want to, either.

His older so-called sibling wasn’t giving up the other thing, though, when he said another stitch later, “Still meant what I said though,” he half grumbled. Tim glanced at his hand on Cass’s arm and the only way he could describe it was – protective. “You got something to say…”

Tim swallowed past the thick, uneasy feeling in his throat and held his tongue, finishing off another stitch before he replied, “I have nothing to say.”

He shrugged, faking nonchalance.

But, of course, Jason wasn’t buying it.

“You know, for a first class _pretender_ ,” and whether his tone was truly scathing, or whether that was just general Jason, Tim suddenly couldn’t tell. “You sure are an awful liar.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Tim said, honestly then, and, in fact, he wasn’t certain he’d like it either.

He didn’t want to discuss this subject, if he was any more honest, because, it was just weird.

Jason bristled at his reply, something akin to a low growl at the back of his throat, and the man seemed to sink deeper into his seat.

Tim frowned, but said nothing. Jason made no reply either and the silence dragged on until Tim was snipping off excess thread on Jason’s twelfth and final stitch.

“Tim—”

“She’s special, Jason,” Tim cut him off shortly, before he’d even planned on speaking. Needle, thread and other items in one hand, the First Aid kit in the other, Tim got to his feet. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Oh, come on, kid!” Jason scathed at his back, but when he spoke again his tone gave Tim pause, and he halted in his trek towards the bathroom. “I _wouldn’t_.”

It was firm, and…almost offended – in a defensive, nearly, _hurt_ , sort of way, Tim mused, that Tim could even think such a thing about his older brother.

Tim turned half around and regarded Jason, who was leaning around the back of the couch to look at him as well, face serious.

“Good.” Tim concluded, with a quick nod, before returning to his task. “I’m making tea,” he threw, casually, over his shoulder as he retreated. “You want any?”

“Yes. Please.”

Tim stopped short a second time.

That had not been Jason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JasCas pretty much turned into my OTP for a while there.


	35. Jason and Cass Troll Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on doing an OTP challenge with Jason and Cass, and I forget what the prompt was exactly, but this is some dialogue I'd come up with for it. I've never posted it anywhere, but apparently I wrote it 26 July 2014.
> 
> Tim wakes up to find Jason and Cass on his couch, basically. He is unamused by their presence.  
>  **(this may or may not need a warning for some...suggestive dialogue?)**

“Timmy! There you are—”

“And here I go.”

“Now don’t be like that – come back, we’ll chat—”

“Let’s chat about – what the heck are you doing on my couch?”

“O – straight to the hard questions. Now, this isn’t really _my_ place, but since that glare is very insistent -chuckle- You see the thing is, Timmy. When a man likes a woman, and a woman likes a man – they can both, sometimes, experience certain… _urges_ —”

“ _Stop._ Just stop. I _meant_ – _why_ are you in _my_ apartment, making out on _my_ couch? Like you don’t have your _own_.”

“Well, that’s because I _don’t_ have my own -grin-”

…

“Great.”

“Isn’t it? We get to hang out – long lost brothers—”

“Just don’t do anything _else_ on my couch.”

“Sweet. We basically just got permission to make-out on Timmy’s couch, like, whenever. And, _indefinitely._ I’m good, huh?”

“But. Then…where will we sleep?”

“Uhhh…oh! I _know_.”

*

“Good-night, Timmy-kins!”

“Yes. G’night, Tim.”

“ _What_ …the _hell_ …? Ugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Jason and Cass decide to just sleep in Tim's bed; sidenote)  
> This is on my list of things to doodle, because I imagine *seeing* Tim’s face would make it funnier, and apparently I have no shame *shrug* XP


	36. I Got Your Nose: Extras (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to post the original version of _I Got Your Nose_ because I don't like it. Have some extras/future scenes for it, though, because they'll likely still be relevant if ever I decide to remake it _again_ :| and also I'm compelled to post these in semi-chronological order, so they must go here.  
>  (Spoilers at the end, so mind the warning)
> 
> Some more Extras at chapter 53.

**Future snippets for _I Got Your Nose_. Since I'm not posting the original version to I Got Your Nose, I'll just summarise the premise of the story for you: a band of henchmen takes Gotham Academy hostage for a handsome ransom. I'd posted the first chapter 21 April 2014. It was a _Young Justice_ cartoon fanfic, set during the Team's third? year, and included Jason, and Cass for the funs :D**

**May 2014**

**This might have been intended as part of _I Got Your Nose_ ; but mostly it was just me, musing in Jason’s voice XP so, pardon:**

“I guess he saw…” saw what? Jason had pondered over the answer to that question many a night in the safety of his lonely bedroom, but he’d never come close to something that made sense.

He wasn’t about to ask, though. He thought Batman probably thought the answer was clear, and, if not, then Jason was supposed to figure it out for himself. Be a detective about it.

It was probably some lesson. Some test. Jason didn’t want to look the fool in front of his mentor by revealing he had no idea why Batman had allowed him to be Robin.

Dick probably knew, but Jason didn’t want to look stupid in front of his brother, either.

He had to sort it out by himself.

Only, he’d gone over events leading up to his turning into a sidekick hero, replayed what he remembered of conversations, went through his feelings, considered Bruce’s potential emotions, and conjured up his face to match, but… Jason was no closer to an actual answer.

The more he turned it over in his head, the less sense it made, because… Bruce was the frickin’ Batman. And Dick had still been Robin when they’d met.

They were heroes. Legends. Glowing and golden, filled with everything that was pure and good and decent, and Jason… well, Jason was nothing more than a survivor. He would do almost anything to survive… and mostly, to himself, that just made him seem like a rotten apple. And he knew what they said about one rotten apple in a bunch.

He didn’t know why Batman had wanted him.

“Well, I guess…” Jason started over again, reconsidering his answer. He was still surviving, sure. But he was doing it as Robin now. He was a hero… and maybe a little less rotten because of it? “I could be better. I could _do_ better. Help more. I was better than what I’d been,” he finally said, half-quoting something Bruce had said to him in ignorance long before he’d picked up the mantle. Ignorance, because Bruce had had no idea what it was like living the life he’d been living. Of course, Jason hadn’t known about Batman’s rich background at the time, but even so.

What were the chances?

“You’re better than all this, Jason _,”_ the Dark Knight had told him, standing tall, dark and broodily in the centre of Jason’s mother’s old apartment. He’d always gone back there when he needed to think. The new one was smaller, stuffier and smelled of thicker smoke and mustier cologne he didn’t like.

They’d had to move, along with all the other tenants, because the apartment building was _*insert random, potentially legit reason here & why it’s still standing despite~*_

But Jason kept coming back to the old place, with its marginally bigger rooms, thought he only ever used the one. It was filled with everything he called his own, because he didn’t trust his mother’s numerous boyfriends with his stuff. He’d barely trusted them with her.

The room had been stacked with books and pillows and candles, and old flashlight batteries, and lots of paper and dust. Later he kept the stuff he stole to sell in a hole in the wall, behidn the bathroom mirror. Took a hell of a long time to screw the mirror loose, so he’d been hoping no one would think to ever look there.

Until Batman.

His books got stolen, but never his trinkets.

It had been a small corner of paradise in his life, and Dick had been right. He’d been taken from a life he thought was perfect – or, as perfect as he’d ever known, anyway – a life where at regular intervals, at least, he really hadn’t desired anything else or anything more.

He was smart and he was tough and part of him was thankful for the streets, because without them, he wouldn’t have been.

He told Batman about as much, but… in retrospect, maybe the Dark Knight had been onto something, after all. If, however, not exactly in the way he’d meant at the time, anyway.

Because Jason was better than all that, now. He’d _become_ better. A selfish part of him didn’t want to give Bruce and Dick the credit though. Jason wanted to believe he had always had this in him. That it was all him. His talent, his skill. They’d just happened to put him in a different place that allowed him to become this _better_ person easier, faster.

But he would’ve done it anyway, even without their help.

…Maybe. “I suppose he thought that, too.

“So… I’ve been Robin ever since,” he finished with a nonchalant shrug and a lopsided grin, and Cassandra smiled at him.

* * *

 

**This was also going to be part of _I Got Your Nose_ , but, the sequel to it XP I had too many plans:**

“I think I… thought I… loved you a little, Cass. Y’know, before I… died, and… all that.

“I mean – in a stupid, hormonal… teenage kind of way, or… or, maybe I didn’t, I don’t… know… the hell I’m saying…”

"It’s okay."

“That… I don’t know what I’m saying? Or… the other thing?”

"Both."

“…Oh.”

* * *

 

**June 2014**

**This was meant to be part of a flashback:**

“Dickface,” Jason snarled, pressing his bare foot against Dick’s chest and shoving him, hard.

Dick fell back, catching himself on his elbows, a light-hearted chuckle escaping the elder boy’s lips.

Jason sort of scowled. Dick never took him seriously when he started looking for a fight. It was all playful fun for the older boy. Jason couldn’t relax, though.

He was waiting anxiously for Dick to decide Jason was nothing more than a nuisance, and a thief and he wanted Robin back. Half the time Jason wanted to egg him on, coax him into realizing it already and just take him on for the title. This waiting was making him nervous, and doubtful that it would happen the longer it dragged on. The moment he let his guard down, settled comfortably into the red and black uniform, the golden cape, the safe mask – would be the moment Dick pounced.

Jason’s heart would break.

He didn’t want to wait until then for the other shoe to drop; he’d rather it hit the floor _now_ , before he got attached.

It was the more cynical side of him that thought that way – maybe. He supposed.

Dick was grinning at him, and Jason had to admit, it had been a half-hearted hit on his part. A playful jab, really… just as Dick had been kidding with what he’d said. Well… sort of.

The optimist in him wanted to believe everything Dick ever told him – about being Robin. That the older boy _wanted_ him to be.

He wanted to believe the other shoe would never drop, because there simply wasn’t one _to_ drop.

Dick looked at him with so much… _joy_ , Jason couldn’t help the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips. The cynic in him scowled viciously, though.

Jason settled cross-legged on the floor as well, mock-scowling – mostly, maybe – at Dick.

“I’ll be taller than you someday, just wait.”

* * *

 

**The first part of this I named _figment_ and posted it to my tumblr, but this is the original (it was part of the “sequel”/“companion piece” idea I’d had for _I Got Your Nose_ and is a conversation between Tim and hallucination?/ghost!Jason):**

“ _Why_ won’t you go away?!”

“Heh. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Timmy-kins. I’m a figment of your imagination. If I’m here, it’s cause you don’t want me gone.”

“But I _do_. I _do_ want you gone!”

“Are you sure about that, kiddo? Are you sure you’re not keeping me around to remind you?”

“ _Of_?”

“What happens to little Robins who fail. Who disobey orders. Who ignore commands. Who get in over their little heads. Who make mistakes. Who can’t live up to the mask and cape.

“The cape and cowl.”

“…”

“Who can’t be saved. No matter how hard their loved ones try.”

“I’m looking at your memorial case, Jason, I think… I think I got the message.”

“So. _What_ am I still doing here?”

“They love you, Jason. Even now, all of them still do…and they blame themselves – every one of them, for what happened to you. For not being able to save you like you wanted them to.”

“Who says I wanted to be saved, Timmy?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Cass. It was Cass I wanted saved. And she was. For a while, right?”

“…Do you blame them, Jason? For…”

“Why would I, kid? That would be stupid. They tried. They tried their hardest, but… Joker’s a dirty bastard. You heard Dickiebird. I saw it coming. I was…vaguely prepared.”

“…Was it enough…? Enough t-time… to… to say…”

“Everything I needed to? Everything I wanted to? Apologize? Thank? Tell them how much I love them? Of course not. That’d be too easy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too, kid. Me, too.”

“I could… pass on the message? If you’d like…”

“You’re dreaming, Tim. I’m not really here. You have no _idea_ how I felt. This. This is just you. This is how you feel.”

“You couldn’t… _not_ have loved them, Jason. The way they talk about you… they love you. You have to love them back. And even if you didn’t get a chance to say it…they wouldn’t be saying it to themselves. Someone else has to. They need to hear it. To believe it. Even if…”

“You’re wrong.”

“Yeah. Even if it’s ‘just me’.”

* * *

 

**Future scene:**

“Ugh – would you guys just get a room, already?”

“Y’know, if you leave, we’ll have one.”

“ _Dick_!” Barbara exclaimed in an exasperated breath, lightly – or, maybe _not_ so lightly – punching his arm at the same time Jason rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Don’t mind if I do.”

Dick chuckled, unperturbed, and took two quick, lengthy strides to catch up to his already retreating brother. “I think, Jay,” he started slyly, catching hold of Jason’s shoulders from behind, “You need a girlfriend. Maybe when this is over you should ask your friend Cass on a date—”

He’d barely finished the sentence though, or Jason’s shoulders slipped from his grasp and Dick halted as Jason spun violently around, snapping, “ _Shut up!_ ”

He hit Dick in nearly the same spot Barbara had before, “Don’t _say_ stuff like that! I-I don’t want to _date_ her! We’re barely friends anyway!” Jason’s expression was a mixture of anger and mortified embarrassment, perfect pink circles blooming on his otherwise pale cheeks.

Dick was trying really hard not to grin, especially when the angry expression seemed to win out and Jason tried to glare at him – much less impressively than usual for the blush on his face.

When he spoke, Dick allowed some amusement to seep into his tone, attempting to diffuse some of his little brother’s temper – he hadn’t expected Jason’s reaction, but in hindsight he should have been more sensitive. Jason often took his teasing more seriously than how Dick meant it, especially in front of people – and, Dick was learning, the dark-haired girl Jason refused to call his friend, was an especially tender subject (because, Dick was theorising in the back of his mind, Jason was protesting too much).

“Heh, I’m sorry Little Wing, I was only kidding—”

Dick’s tone had the opposite of his desired effect, though, and before he’d gotten the last word out entirely, Jason was snapping again, “Yeah, Troll Wonder – real mature! No wonder you’re not leader of the Team.”

Dick winced involuntarily, as if Jason had hit him again, only hard enough to hurt this time.

The glower on Jason’s face barely wavered more than a blink of surprise at Dick’s reaction, his crimson cheeks now more a testament to his anger than any embarrassment.

Dick was nursing his own spill of anger in light of Jason’s comment, his expression darkening as he replied, “Congrats, Jase. You got one in. Anything more?” his voice rang lowly through the mini-cave, clear in the reigning silence, weighted by the obvious change in atmosphere.

Dick watched Jason swallow and knew, though he couldn’t see past the whites of his mask, that the kid had glanced away. It was no batglare – not even close to Bruce’s general expression on a bad day, even – but Dick knew all the mirth had left his eyes, any hint of a smile abandoned the corners of his mouth, leaving nothing but a heavy expression of disappointment on his features.

Because, he found, he _was_ disappointed.

It was a more complicated reason than simple maturity, why Dick still wasn’t leader of the Team, and moreover, Jason knew that.

“Can we go now?” Jason ground out through his teeth, perpetually glancing at and away from Dick, his glower morphing into a pained-looking frown.

Dick’s own frown was pensive – he’d seen that expression on Jason’s face before, and, of a multitude of masks his little brother paraded through daily, Dick regretted having no idea what this particular one was for.

Jason finally settled on avoiding eye-contact.

“Yes,” Dick said, making it sound like half a growl, and at once Jason made for the exit. Reacting on another whim, Dick halted Jason with a brief hand on the boy’s shoulder. “After me,” he said, and finally fixed his mask to his face as he passed.

“What’s the difference?” Jason retorted, and Dick shrugged with all the nonchalance he could manage in his semi-spiteful state.

“I just suddenly don’t trust you not to run off again.”

And that was a potentially horrible thing to have said, since Jason seemed to react solely in defiance of whatever anyone ever expected of him. Chances were, Dick had just gone and given him a reason to run off.

Fleetingly he entertained the notion of sealing the entrance from outside before Jason would be able to join him – just to make _absolutely certain_ his little brother _couldn’t_ get up to any trouble. Even as he thought it, though, he knew Jason would probably never forgive and potentially hate him forever for it.

Topping Robin’s priority list at present was Cassandra, and while Jason was close enough to the entire situation that it would test his judgement and emotions like potentially never before – well, definitely not _entirely_ like never before, since nothing would _ever_ test him more than the summer had – Nightwing couldn’t bench him – just yet – because even with the Team coming in, he couldn’t spare anyone for Cassandra if Robin wasn’t there to handle it himself.

He couldn’t just leave her in the hands of a madman – a killer – on the assumption he wouldn’t harm her since he hadn’t so far, either. If things went awry, Jason _really_ wouldn’t forgive him. He’d hardly forgive himself.

Still, on the tail of his previously discarded thought, another, to keep a better eye on Robin this time, flitted through his mind, and was at once accompanied by another feeling as Nightwing turned to look at Barbara over his shoulder, and caught a quick glimpse of his partner’s exposed features.

Arms crossed, expression unchanged from earlier’s frown, though his mouth seemed twisted deeper, bordering on a pout; Jason was marvelling at the ground but not disputing his brother’s order at going second, or snapping at Nightwing’s declaration of distrust either.

Guilt stirred, clutching at Dick’s insides. [Had he somehow upset Jason? Was that what the expression was for?]

Robin’s shoulders were rigid, broader than what they’d been a year before, but seemingly vulnerable for all the strength they’d accumulated, all the responsibility they were proudly wearing with the weight of that cape. Only now, with that face, that posture, for a moment Dick was too scared to blink – afraid he’s see the little street kid he’d come to love and adore as his little brother, hunched over and drawn tight into himself, crushed under the weight of responsibility [and abandonment].

Was that the purpose of this mask?

Dick felt as though he’s ripped out Jason’s insides, toiling and playing with them, spreading them bare for all the world to see while Jason was forced to watch, turning numb and cold as Dick exposed and hurt him.

It was rapidly starting to hurt Dick, just glimpsing that expression on the boy’s face.

[Was it there only to make him feel so much like crap?]

_What do his eyes look like?_

“Barb,” his voice nearly didn’t make it past his throat. “We’ll be back for you soon.”

He’d only ever seen a blue-green sea of fearless, blazing fire, because Jason had never let him look at his eyes when he was in an even remotely compromised state. Unless there was the mask. Robin’s mask. And the _actual_ mask.

“Just stay put,” watching Barbara with her fiery locks curling about her face and shoulders, her arms crossed, but her chin held high and strong*, was putting the strength back in Dick’s voice. “I’m locking the exit anyway, just in case.”

Her smile was half-knowing, half-annoyed, “What do you think I’m going to do out there anyway?” but her blue eyes were almost eager at the challenge.

Only _almost_.

To his immense relief.

They were filled with warmth and understanding, and her smile with strength and luck for him – for them – as she nodded.

Nightwing nodded in turn, finally making his way out his personal “cave” (strategically not looking at Robin a second time), “Let’s go.”

Jason didn’t need a second invitation – he’d barely needed a first – but when he came up beside him, Nightwing was waiting with one last invite to bestow [on him].

“When we get home,” he started, keeping his expression a practised blank, facing ahead all the while instead of regarding Jason at all. But Robin had stopped and was acutely listening all the same, he knew. “You and I are going to have an important conversation,” okay, so maybe it was less of an invite and more of a command, but still – important didn’t begin to cover it. “ _I’m_ going to talk, _you’re_ going to talk and we’re going to straighten all this out. Because in the space of two sentences, there’s suddenly _a lot_ that needs straightening.”

“Whatever,” came the too-detached reply, and when Dick finally looked at him, he found an expression of mild annoyance and carefully placed disinterest.

“I’m taking that as _your word_ , Robin,” Nightwing said seriously.

The boy’s mask flinched briefly, and an almost imperceptible flicker of resignation crossed his features before a serious, “Yes, Nightwing.”

Dick suddenly wondered if the face he’d ducked his head to avoid eye-contact over, wasn’t perhaps, in actual fact, Jason Todd’s most genuine, maskless expression…?

It was a painful thing if that were the case, and it would start eating at Dick if he didn’t find a chance to address it (especially since it had seemed to have been something _he’d_ said or done that had caused it).

“Can we _please_ go find Cass, now?” Jason snapped Nightwing from his reverie scarcely a beat later, his head whipping up to meet his brother’s gaze at last.

Jaw firm and his fists clenched, he seemed the perfect example of determined little bird [or a desperate one]. Only a faint hitch in his black mask betrayed the set of his worried brow.

Nightwing dared to squeeze his shoulder, and returned half a grin to his lips when he didn’t lose his hand for it, “Yes.”

 **This:** _And that was a potentially horrible thing to have said, since Jason seemed to react solely in defiance of whatever anyone ever expected of him. Chances were, Dick had just gone and given him a reason to run off._ **is not an accurate representation, and Jason would not be running off without permission. XP sidenote. I’m fairly certain the chapter this part was to belong to, was going to be named _The Hole in the Mask_.**

* * *

 

**27 June 2014**

**This is after Dick and Jason exit the bathroom with What’s-his-face/Guy With Gun (since he never tells them his name, Jason takes to calling him several different things just to be annoying, and the boys introduce themselves as _each other’s_ middle names):**

Dick slung his left arm across Jason’s shoulders, sounding exasperated, “ _Johnny_ ,” he squeezed with his fingers in a very particular way and Jason got the message to look up at him. Feigning petulance in response to Dick’s tone, Jason put on a pout and only used his eyes. “Maybe you should shut up,” Dick suggested, sounding for all the world to hear like the annoyed, uppity, I-know-better older brother he was – pretending to be. Surreptitiously Dick shifted his eyes as he spoke, flicking to his right and back as a sign for Jason to follow his gaze, which the younger boy did, catching sight of Dick’s right hand as it appeared in a seemingly casual, dismissive flick of the wrist as he waved it through the air.

But Jason saw the gesture for what it was. Dick had a plan, but it called for a distraction.

“Got it,” Jason said at once, both in reply to his brother’s apparent verbal plea, and his devious silent request.

Dick nodded, satisfied, and dropped his arm away from Jason to give him some room.

* * *

 

**26 July 2014**

**I added more/different dialogue to the above:**

“So, what are you kids – like brothers or something? Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you got all protective of the short one back there.” *chuckle*

“Keep joking, I’m gonna be the tall one someday.”

“Same hair color, at least…features are very different, though. So are your eyes. I’m beginning to think it’s…somethin’ else? You two…”

“We two, _what_?”

“Y’know – _into_ each other.”

“ _Ew_. Also, are you using all your teeth, because I’m feeling like making a buck—”

“Jay—”

“You shitting me? Di’you _not_ see his face?”

“You see my gun, kid?”

*scowl*

“It was just a simple question.”

“He’s my _brother_ – let me reiterate the _ew_. And, you’re a _creep_.”

“When we leave, I’m starting to think I’ll take you with us – teach you some _manners_.”

“Don’t get too lost in that thought, Butch, it’s not gonna happen. I’m familiar with your manners and I don’t care for them.”

“Just keep talking and calling me names, kid, we’ll see how mouthy you are when I escort you out of here.”

“ _Alright, Johnny_ – I agree, you’ve talked enough. Why don’t you _shut up_.”

“Got it.”

“Hmm. Listen to your brother, little Johnny.”

“Yup, _real easy_ , to quit talking. I’m gonna shut up, Pete. Bucky. Gonna shut right up. Not another word. Any minute. Any _second_. Like, right… _now_.”

* * *

 

**August 2014**

**So Dick takes Jason and Babs to his secret Robin cave beneath the school; they contact Batman, and then I had this conversation in mind (it was not guaranteed to be used though):**

“Hngh – would-you-stop, with that look—just—ugh – I’m sorry, okay!

“I’m sorry, Dickie, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to – I-I didn’t mean to yell at him, but he kept _nagging_ and I didn’t want to tell him – have to say I got shot at, because, well – you _know_. A-and he worries, and it’s stupid because I can take care of myself, I always have, but he still does – you know he does even when he acts like he’s pretending otherwise – and it hurts, too, I know, and I didn’t want to hurt him, but I do, because sometimes I just talk before thinking and I say shit cause I’m stupid—”

“Stop. Jason, you’re not stupid.”

*gasp~* (hug!!)

“I get it. I understand, little brother. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“…Uh… okay, well, enough touchy-feely crap, then, let me go—”

“Huh-uh, just five more seconds, please. You never hug me, Jay…”

“Ugh, Dickiebird – c’mon—”

“No – I like holding you, Jay—”

“Dick…”

“I-I’m not gonna hurt you or anything, Jay. Y’know…n-not every touch is _bad_ , I just...”

“The hell makes you say that?! What kind of shit are you implying?”

“Uh—N-nothing, Jay! Please, I was just – talking without thinking. I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear – please don’t be mad at me again. Please? …Jay?”

“You’re an idiot. Dickface.”

*sigh* “Yeah…yeah, no kidding.”

“…I wasn’t mad at you…just…myself…”

“Well, hey – don’t be. You did nothing wrong. I bet Bats feels that way, too. He probably already figured out how you felt, too – that you got frustrated with him for nagging and that you never meant to hurt him *grin~falter* I’m serious, Jay. Bats… you know, just gets us like that.”

“*snort* I don’t buy that for a second Dickiebird, because half the time he smirks and the other half he grunts at whatever we’re on about. There’s no way he actually _gets_ anything. It’s all just a ruse.”

“‘Ruse’?” *laugh*

“*click* It was in a book.”

“*grin* Come on, Jay – he’s the ‘g-damn Batman’, of _course_ he knows how we feel.”

“Let me contradict you there Dickie – just, repeat that sentence slowly. Start with, ‘he’s the g-damn Batman’, and end with ‘knows how we feel’.”

“Hardy har-har. You’re hilarious.”

“Heh. XP I know [alternatively: Don’t I know it].”

* * *

 

**The following is some dialogue that contains _SPOILERSSPOILERSSPOILERSSPOILERS._ THIS HAS BEEN YOUR WARNING ~~Read it if you dare~~ , otherwise scroll back up and be on your merry way to the next chapter. :|**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dick, don’t!”

“Well, _that_ was just rude, little birdie.”

“Bite me, bitch.”

“…Maybe later.”

*

**2 April 2014**

Feeling a little psychotic again today, are we, Mr J?

 

“What – for you? Hehe, you’re…you’re _joking_ right?”

“Hmmm…tickling my funny bone, are we? That’s hilarious, little bird.”

“Don’t call me little bird.”

“Hm – not so funny anymore, eh? And you were smiling not a minute ago… *pout* Of course, the grin wasn’t _quite_ wide enough. Let me _fix_ that!! :D”


	37. Loitering ch1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Jason loiters on the manor's porch.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 22 August 2014, to ffnet.
> 
>  **This fic contains:** Language. Panic attacks. PTSD I guess. Villains doing villainous villainy things villainously. But off-screen, because this is a story about a man on a porch. Mentions of torture, drug use/abuse, and death. The aftermath thereof. But again, the former off-screen.  
>  Headcanons and non-canon things, and smushed-together canon things from other canon verses outside of comics.  
>  **The following cast of characters:** Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, Bruce Wayne, Joker, Clark Kent, Jim Gordon, Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul.
> 
>  **Additionally:** angst. Angst galore. I've been told.

_adrift_

* * *

 “Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.”

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

 

It was starting to look – and feel – a little like Jason’s mood: overcast and chilly.

What bright sunlight had accompanied his arrival had dimmed with the ever-quickening crawl of deep grey clouds crossing the sky.

If it started raining soon, he didn’t want to be here anymore.

Probably hadn’t wanted to be here when the sun was still shining either.

 _Ugh_.

What had he been thinking – making the trip only to stand in front of the door?

 _Idiot_.

…

Anyway.

If he was going to leave, now was the perfect time, less he got drenched in a storm and caught a cold on his way home to boot. And wouldn’t that just be his luck?

Yeah. Definitely time to leave.

Scowling at the doorknob – the details of which he could replicate masterfully he’d been staring at it so long – one last time for good measure, Jason spun on his heel and crossed the porch, bounding down the steps two at a time.

He was barely clear of the platform, though, when he heard the door swing open in a rush, footsteps meeting the wooden floorboards with quiet fervour.

He didn’t want to stop.

“Jason – come inside.”

If it was said with anymore force it would be a blatant command, and any more emotion would turn it into a desperate whine.

As it was, it was just… _Dick_.

…Naturally.

“Can’t,” he said shortly; not stopping, not turning, and not looking back. Concealed in the pockets of his faded jeans, Jason’s fingers curled into fists. Figured Dickie-bird would wait until he was ready to _leave_ before inviting him in.

Probably the golden child had been watching him from inside the entire time. Probably didn’t want to be… _overbearing_. Wanted to take Jason’s _‘feelings’_ into consideration; allow him to make up his own mind, pick his own choice—

Only, it apparently didn’t agree with _Dickie’s_ choice for him.

“‘Can’t?’” the older man echoed, feather-light steps on the stairs, easy strides in the wake of Jason’s heavy footfalls, but Dick didn’t pass or come up to him. “But you’ve already been here an hour!”

Shit. Had it really been that long?

_Shit._

“Yeah, and that’s all the time I got,” he said gruffly, feebly quickening his pace – Dick kept up with him easily.

Somehow the distance to the gates – to his _freedom_ – at the edge of the grounds seemed so much farther than when he’d ventured the trip in the other direction.

“ _Seriously_ , Jason?” there was a hint of exasperation in his brother’s tone now, but it only served to aggravate Jason a little more. “That’s it? You came all the way over here just to loiter on the doorstep?”

 _No._ No, not _just_ to loiter. To loiter, and then _leave_.

The hell kind of person actually _says_ ‘loiter’ anyway? It’s used for window signs to confuse and annoy all the people standing around trying to figure out what it is they’re _not_ supposed to do, because who the hell actually knows the meaning of the word.

Must be _‘No Littering’_ – somebody should fix that.

Jason bristled, came to an abrupt halt and spun round with a finger raised at the shorter man.

Forget ‘loitering.’

It grated how true that sounded.

It grated how much it sounded like his own admonition from earlier.

It grated how he couldn’t be certain it was Dick sounding like his head, or his head starting to sound like Golden Boy.

It grated to realize he actually _agreed_ with the _wonder_ of Boy Wonders.

Damn it all.

“Screw you, Grayson,” Jason snapped, Dick halting mid-pace at Jason’s sudden invasion of his personal space. “If you wanted me inside you should have opened the damn door and said so!”

“I _did_!” but Jason had already turned about and started his march to the gates anew.

There was no missing the indignation in Dick’s tone, even though he’d managed to give whatever expression accompanied it a miss.

His brother was paler than he remembered, he’d noticed.

His hair was longer, scragglier. His eyes seemed brighter. Somehow, _bluer_ , if that was possible.

Next to the dark circles beneath his eyes, it made for a sharp contrast against the ghostly white of his skin, his chapped lips.

…

The leather of his gloves clenched and squealed in protest as Jason tightened his fingers.

What – was Dickie _sick_ …?

…

No.

He couldn’t _care_ less.

…

“Yeah, only when you saw me leave,” he shot over his shoulder, spiteful.

An aggravated huff came from behind, “I was hoping you’d knock, ring the bell – something!” So he _had_ been watching. Of course. _Ass_. “I wanted you to. I didn’t _want_ you to _leave_ , Jay—”

“Well, then you shouldn’t have _let me_ ,” the argument suddenly sounded very _petty_ to Jason’s ears, even as the remark seemed to sting – _him_. And why the hell should it sting?!

“Well is that what you wanted? For me to open the door and _force_ you inside? You wouldn’t have been pissed and yelling at me _then_?”

_Oh no, Dick Grayson. Golden Boy doesn’t get to do that. Not this time._

Dick was not going to turn this around like he was the bad guy here (because generally Jason liked to think he was at least _decent_ , if not good, and certainly not _all_ bad – the world was filled with worse scum, and he was doing it a favour by getting rid of them. So there. Not bad.).

Jason stopped a second time to give his brother a piece of his mind, “Oh, go f—” a pretty expletive on the tip of his tongue when his eye caught sight of the halfway opened front door beyond Dick’s shoulder, a glimpse of black and white and a sliver of silver in the entryway, hovering in quiet observation. “— _Away_ , Grayson,” he amended, almost out of habit wanting not to incur the figure’s wrath, though it left his retort with a lot less bite than intended.

The figure disappeared. Dick blinked. Jason scowled.

His older brother’s brows knit together, lips curling into a disapproving frown – the entire expression somehow making him seem young and adorable, and more dangerous for it. Jason had a moment to wonder if the villains of Gotham ever cooed over Robin’s expressions when Dick had been the one in the hot-pants.

Harley and Poison Ivy, probably. Catwoman almost definitely – you had to adore the Robin if you wanted…under the Bat’s cape.

Heh.

“I _live_ here,” Dick scowled, angry pink spots on his pale cheeks only accentuating the bleakness, as he waved a hand, almost in the direction of Jason’s salvation. “ _You_ go away.”

“I’ve been _trying_!” Jason said, throwing up his hands, voice thick with frustration. “But – now that I _have_ your permission,” he added sarcastically, dipping into a mock bow on a whim, before he stepped back, regarded his older brother with a smirk and then turned away a second time.

There was a stunning, _painful_ moment of silence, before—

“Jason!”

Feather-light footfalls.

“ _Jay_ —” and this time Dick came right up to his back, planting a firm hand on his shoulder.

They stopped walking a third time.

It was only a few more strides to freedom.

_Damn it, Dick._

He made to shrug off the hand, but Dick’s grip only tightened defiantly.

“The next time you find yourself pointlessly hanging out on the porch,” Dick started before Jason could manage more than a breath, “And I’m not out in five minutes to haul your ass inside,” that was a very serious, sincere, threat, if Dickie’s tone was anything to go by. “It only means I haven’t seen you yet. So… _knock_? Ring the bell? Just _come inside_.” A beat. “Okay? … _Jason_?”

He was experiencing a flashback – emotionally, physically – of what it felt like to have a collapsed lung.

_That’s too much to ask, Dick._

Jason had no idea anymore what had propelled him to walk all the way to the manor – if anything at all had in the first place.

Didn’t know why he _loitered_ in front of the door.

Why it took him so long to leave.

Why he hadn’t knocked.

Rung the bell.

Just went inside.

“Whatever,” he snapped, without heat, but made more of an enthused effort to relieve his shoulder of Dick’s offending hand.

His brother let him go. “I want you to promise me, Jay!”

No quietly echoing footfalls on his heels.

“Whatever.”

And there it was – _finally_.

“I’m taking that as _your word_ , Jason!”

Despite their impressive size and splendour, the delicate-looking curves of mirrored W’s; the gates were _old_.

“Shouldn’t do that.”

Sweet freedom. It was chilly, the breeze nipping at his face.

“And I’m holding it against you if you break that promise!”

_Go back inside, Dickie…_

…

“Good-bye, Jay!”

…

“Bye, Dickie…”

He was too far away to be heard.

And too far away to hear, “Come home soon, Little Wing…”

The sun shone after all, on the way back to his safe-house.

It rained anyway.


	38. Loitering ch2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 24 September 2014.
> 
> Chapter 1 was meant to be a one-shot, but then a reader wondered aloud in my review box if Jason was ever going back to the manor, and I realised I wanted to know the answer to that.

_promises we did not make_

* * *

“You can choose your friends but you sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ‘em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

 

Patches of clouds threaded across the sky were dark grey and heavy in winter, bleeding white and covering the world below in a mass of pale flakes.

In spring, similar clouds cried sheets of rain, the picture of smeared grey paint left running down the canvas.

It had much the same appearance in the fall, only looking drearier, what with the barren, lifeless, leafless world below instead of green, flowery springtime groves.

Even in summer the clouds never _really_ went away completely, always grimly covering what would be a bright blue sky anywhere else.

A clear, sunny day was a rarity in Gotham – about as rare as Jason on the front porch of Wayne manor.

…

Well, damn.

A pair of rarities in one day.

The world must be ending somewhere.

Again.

It had been more than five minutes.

He’d counted the seconds out exactly.

And another minute just to be sure.

Then another, just in case.

He stopped counting sometime after that, his mind taking to debating instead.

Technically, he was under obligation.

To knock. Ring the doorbell. _Do_ …something.

Eventually he had his hand raised at the door, knuckles poised to rap politely across the wood, for another five minutes – by the drumbeat of his heart.

Maybe if he did it really, _really_ quietly, he could get away with honestly saying he had, like he never promised he would, but no one had heard, like he didn’t want them to.

So he’d gone on his merry way, earnest in his belief that no one had been home.

Couldn’t hold that against him, right?

He’d have knocked.

It wouldn’t be his fault.

…

…

Dammit, this wasn’t fair.

He hadn’t _actually_ promised. He _hadn’t_.

But Jason was nothing if not honest, at least – sometimes, _mostly_ , about the things that counted – and cheating like that would be dishonesty.

It would gnaw at his gut though it had no right to, because _damn it all to hell_ , he _hadn’t actually made that promise_ – but it was still best he just not knock in any way, shape or form, turn on his heel, and _damn well just left already_.

He could throw the unmade promise back in his wannabe brother’s face if he ever bitched about it, and feel bad _later_ when Dick’s deflated expression was a distant memory.

And it wasn’t cowardice either – don’t even think it. Jason Todd was no coward.

But he was no fool either.

A whole host of dangers lay beyond those broad wooden doors.

The kind that messed with your mind.

Shit Jason had no need of.

Scowling, mostly at himself, and only vaguely aware of a sense of déjà vu, he’d just turned to leave like he should have done over half an hour ago, when the door opened a crack.

He had the presence of mind – somehow – to actually look at who it was before he opened his mouth to snap.

If it were Dick, which was what he’d assumed on impulse, his self-proclaimed older brother was going to hear the sharp side of his tongue and then some.

While still in much the same vein and frame of mind, it would still be an entirely different verbal-whooping if it had been a certain _other_ person.

But he caught himself in time with a reprimand that if it were Alfred, he had no desire to scream and spit in the old butler’s face – and, not only because he wouldn’t deserve it.

Jason would be drinking milk for a week trying to quell the hellfire dancing on his tongue – he’d be deserving of it, too – there were more than a few choice words, all _pretty_ , in the arguments he’d mentally prepared for both aforementioned men.

Okay, “prepared” was a bit of a stretch – it’s not like he sits around in his safe-houses memorising lines and thinking up counter-arguments and reasonable comebacks in case he gets into a verbal sparring match with either of them.

He really doesn’t…

…

They just somehow find their way into his head and won’t _go away_ , that’s all.

…

He tries really hard to forget those lines, too.

And the feelings converging on his chest, making it hard to breathe, or think…or _hear_ – _anything_ , but the screams, and the shouting, and the arguing – and the _crying_ – and every angry word he wants to throw in their faces _so damn badly_.

…

He doesn’t know any more if it’s because that’s what he really _feels_ – still – or does it linger because he hasn’t said it…is he saving them for an opportune moment – because imagining the expressions on their faces won’t compare to the real thing…?

…And he _wants to see that_.

…

…

Ugh, _no_.

…

More often than not he feels…— _anxious_ , that he really will throw up all the shit in his head – at Dickie, at _him_ , at…even at the kid in the doorway.

He bites down on his tongue, he swallows the words, because…he _wants_ , even more, to believe – like Alfred – they don’t deserve it after all.

He’s just being—

_Never mind_.

He’s not _that_.

“Jason…?”

As it turned out, it wasn’t any of the three older men in his—

…

… _not-family_ , who’d come to the door, though.

Not Dickiebird, with the idiot-grin Jason wouldn’t admit to _wanting_ to see on his face at the sight of his younger brother.

Not…

…

And thank whatever deity for _that_.

And not Alfred, who conveyed just as much emotion in a single glance than either of the aforementioned – or _un_ mentioned – only with much more decorum. And while Jason could not pretend to mind facing that one, he could neither deny he wasn’t grateful he didn’t _need_ to right now, after all. He didn’t think he _could_ , yet.

The kid peered up at Jason with narrowed eyes, sounding…wary? – probably scared he’d get gutted with a knife.

Jason wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

Though he hadn’t opened the door all the way, Tim filled in the small space between the two front doors with a guarded, almost territorial air of confidence even as he hid nothing of himself – apart, though, from his right arm still behind the door.

For a moment Jason wondered if Tim had his bo-staff in that hand…

Jason narrowed his eyes, snapped from a half-second surprise at seeing the kid – didn’t he have his own digs nowadays? Back with Daddy-Bats then (like Dickie?) – and settled on feeling annoyed, after all, at the boy’s tone.

_Wary_ , like Jason was there to hurt someone (granted, it was early yet, he might still slip into the notion – but there was no reason to be so damn obvious about it).

…

_Concerned_ , like he’d read a wrongness on Jason’s face ( _well_ , now).

And that was unsettling.

There was nothing wrong, except that he was _here_. But, ignoring the concern and instead indulging in the kid’s wariness, Jason stuck his hands in his pockets, turned back to face him properly and fixed Tim’s blue eyes with a glare.

“If it isn’t my replacement,” he scathed appropriately.

Tim blinked, and then scowled, made to say something, but Jason cut him off.

“Where’s Dick?”

“Out,” he said shortly, and Jason pursed his lips in mock consideration, nodded a little.

“Oh.”

He’d spied Nightwing jumping rooftops beyond the borderline of his territory a few times the last couple months.

A right spring-chicken after whatever bout of illness had had him under the weather; looking sickly and sleep-deprived when they last met in civvies…

…Dickie stealing promises Jason had had no intention of keeping.

And he hadn’t, after all.

“Is that all?” Tim asked, bordering on impatient.

Jason nodded, but made no move to leave, still spiteful. “Pretty much.”

When the silence dragged on he was tempted to start counting seconds again, but Tim cut him off.

“You’re still on the porch.”

“Free country.”

“Private property!”

Jason looked back at the kid, having let his gaze wander, seemingly unperturbed, “Well, if you’d been paying attention before, _Pretender_ ,” he spat. “I _was_ actually on my way.”

Not waiting for an answer he spun about, intent on marching back to his freedom beyond the gates, only to pause in his step once more.

“Ugh—w-wait!”

Tim sounded… _determined_ , albeit…annoyed? in his uncertainty.

Which was altogether very weird.

So Jason turned back. Tim had stepped forward, one foot in the space between in and out, a hand raised, the other still hidden.

“Uh…” he settled back when Jason seemed to be staying, the tenseness in his frame slowly fading, making him seem… _smaller_.

A lot of things made Tim seem smaller.

Tim. Timmers. Timmy-kins.

Little Timmy.

Ill-equipped for this.

Timmy.

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.

Jason had a knot in his stomach waiting to hear about another Joker incident and Timmy blown to smithereens.

He wasn’t wishing it on the kid. Just didn’t know how to prevent it.

“It’s, um, hot out here, and Alfred—” Timmy started talking, faster at every second word, as he turned, off to his left, his bo-staff wielding hand finally making a brief appearance – Jason tensed involuntarily, inexplicably expecting a blow that never came.

Instead, the kid leaned over beyond the second, still shut door, where Jason couldn’t see, towards – a table? There was a table there, right? With a phone, maybe, or…books?

He…

…

…couldn’t remember—

Next moment Timmy was presenting Jason with a glass. Holding it around the rim with his pale fingertips, nails neatly trimmed. He was still talking all the while, “—thought you might like some to cool you down…”

No response.

“It’s…freshly squeezed…” had the vague lilt of an inviting question, and Timmy shrugged.

But Jason had his eyes on the neatly wrapped bandages around the boy’s wrist, peeking out from under the wrist-guard that was bunching his fingers up together.

“And, you know…it’s hot…” Timmy repeated.

Like a hypocrite, Jason was dressed in his practically patented leather jacket – never mind the heat – with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar turned down, but it would hardly take a genius to squint close enough and recognize it as the Red Hood’s.

It was a stupid move, for obvious reasons, and if it were Dick in the doorway he’d be giving Jason an earful much like a younger second Robin had judged Dick’s thankfully short-lived ponytail-phase.

Beyond the impracticality of the thing, it had been such an eyesore anyone seeing it would remember whether they wanted to or not, and Dick Grayson would suddenly find himself yanked back by the hair by one of Nightwing’s enemies.

Moreover, the jacket really _was_ contributing to the heat never mind his pale red shirt underneath was thin and barely had any sleeves to speak of.

His jeans were thick and his boots were stuffy, too.

Maybe his hair needed a trim round the ears, down his neck. Just a little.

All in all, the makings of a hot, sweaty mess.

Alfred’s freshly squeezed – lemonade? Timmy hadn’t specified – could only improve his temperature and potentially prevent spontaneous combustion.

But Jason was still eyeing the injury a second or two too long, only snapping out of it when Timmy – seemingly awkwardly – shifted his weight, briefly glanced away.

Jason snatched the glass from Timmy’s fingers perhaps more roughly than he’d meant, but, despite the warmth of his attire, he sought no refreshment from the coolness against his palm.

Timmy had noticed his inadvertent staring – of course – and, relieved of the glass, drew his wrist close and touched his free fingers to it as he – needlessly, because, dammit, Jason _didn’t care_ – offered an explanation,

“Landed badly dodging a hit the other night – not enough room in the alley. It’s hardly even a sprain, really,” he shrugged, nonchalant. “But, you know Alfred,” he smiled, a little subdued though it was, only half-met Jason’s eyes, “Better safe than sorry…”

“Hm.”

Alley. The other night.

On the edge of Jason’s turf.

He’d spied Red Robin leaving the scene of a potential drug exchange – would-be buyers zipped-up tight and left for pick-up, sirens blaring in the distance.

He’d had a guy down there himself, for intel mostly, since there was little known about the new merchandise – rumoured to be more expensive than anything else and lethal besides.

Not a high, but a poison instead.

Jason needed confirmation before he could decide how to handle it.

Buyers were useless for info, seller had gotten away – Jason’s guy too, of course, Red Robin none the wiser. But it hadn’t helped Jason any.

Absently he wondered if that was his excuse for coming down to the manor this time – exchange notes with the red bird since they were obviously working the same case on opposite ends of town.

…

No, that wasn’t it.

He hadn’t come to see Timmy, after all.

He was looking for Dick.

Looking to see if his pretend older brother would make good on _his_ promise to haul Jason’s ass across the threshold within five minutes of his loitering.

…

Apparently he’d picked a bad day for it.

…

Timmy stood looking at his wrist, Jason at the condensation around the glass in his hand, for almost another full minute before they both made to speak—

Timmy was quicker, “You could come i—”

“No.”

He was glaring at the kid, just out of reflex, but apparently his successor was made of stronger stuff because he didn’t back down, “But – come on, you can’t stay on the porch all day—”

“That’s why I’m leaving,” he held the still-full glass for Timmy to take, but the younger teenager made no move except to briefly scowl at it.

He’d have said something more, probably, if Jason hadn’t offered kindly, “This goes in your hand or over your head. Pick.”

“Ugh. _Jason_ ,” hand then. He sounded exasperated, but Jason— _Didn’t_. _Care_.

He turned right around, sweaty palm returned to the pocket of his jeans as he sauntered off – scowling ahead when Timmy followed (the drink abandoned on the porch with a quiet _clink_ as it was set down).

“Jason – seriously—”

Jason quickened his pace.

Kid kept up effortlessly – kept up the yapping, too.

“We wouldn’t mind—”

_I would. I do, in fact._

“I-I wouldn’t mind—”

Though fleetingly, he _did_ ponder taking the kid up on that invitation after all, just to show him why he _should_ , in fact, be minding too.

“And Alfred would like to see you, and when Dick gets back he’d be ecstatic—”

Jason snorted, just on principle.

“And,” _hesitation_. Part of him saw it coming. The other part was refusing to even think or acknowledge or mentally have anything to do with _him_ , so of course that was the part that reacted – and badly.

“Bruce—”

Timmy’s real mistake – because hearing the name he could still potentially ignore, but – was putting his hand on Jason’s shoulder as though to halt him.

Jason stopped, whirled around, snatching the offending limb even as the kid actually let him go, “ _Enough!_ ” he snarled, low and feral, his fingers squeezing, twisting as he turned, “Just _shut u—_ ”

“ _Argh—!_ ”

Jason’s words drowned out with the sound and he released Timmy’s wrist at once. The boy’s left hand clutched at it reflexively as his breath hitched, caught audibly in his throat, his expression pinched with pain.

“ _Crap_ , Timmy, I’m sorry,” Jason panicked, rushing closer like he wasn’t already close enough, hands hovering without purpose, “I forgot, I—” he cut himself off abruptly, brain catching up.

He couldn’t do more than stare, though.

The kid was breathing out slowly, controlling the pain in whatever measure he could manage, just like the Bat had taught him.

Now a hero in his own right though, just like Nightwing, Red Robin probably had more tricks up his sleeve than the usual for managing his pain, so when the kid raised his head, however slowly it was, peering at Jason through his dark bangs, there was no more trace of hurt – only surprise. A little disbelief in those blue eyes.

“You called me ‘ _Timmy’_ ,” he breathed, barely audible.

Jason shook his head, stupidly, face burning.

Regaining his senses, he straightened abruptly, glaring daggers at his replacement.

The little pretender almost looked… _sad_? at the change. Like Dick would.

Well, screw them both.

Screw all this shit.

Shit he _did not need_.

He whipped about and all but ran to the gates, eyes fixed on the stylized W’s adorning the portal to his escape.

“Ja—”

It sounded like “Jay.” Like his nickname.

But of course Jason knew that wasn’t it – Tim had only stopped himself, realising it wouldn’t matter if he called. Jason was leaving, and that was _It_.

He wasn’t coming back, either. He’d wasted enough hours perched on a porch where he knew – he _knew, dammit_ – he didn’t want to be.

Inexplicable, then, the way he glanced back – only to glare? – unable, though, to hear or see the younger boy’s feeble “ _I’m sorry, Jay_.”

His cheeks were still on fire as he left the manor behind – the heat in his neck, on the tips of his ears, and burning in his chest to rival the blazing sun overhead.

Anger. Made his hands shake.

He shed his jacket somewhere along the way, clutched it in one white-knuckled hand.

Its absence brought little relief, though.

Every continued step still drenched him further in sweat – his shirt sticking to his fever-hot skin.

Every heartbeat echoed a throbbing already loud in his head, nursing it affectionately, encouraging it to pound quicker and quicker.

Still, he _needed_ , desperately, to be gone from there, as far away as possible.

So he kept up the pace, heated beneath his sweat-slick skin, pained in the head and sick to his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original idea for _Loitering_ was to have Jason come to the manor several times during the year, and have a conversation with a different family member each time. Ending with Bruce, probably. But then my brain kind of got away from me somewhere between chapters 2 and 3...


	39. Loitering ch3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 5 October 2014.

_devout hopefulness_

* * *

“Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.”

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

 

“‘Low’ …No.

“L… ‘Loo’…

“…Hmm… Like. _Boyal, spoyal, foyal…loya…t…_

“ _Loyt. Er._

“Hm. Tim.”

“Cass?”

“This? _This_.”

“‘Loiter’.” Tim supplied helpfully, looking up from the laptop balanced on his crossed knees to find the word Cass was pointing at where she held the book over the back of the couch for him to see.

“‘Loi.’ …‘Loi’?”

He nodded encouragingly.

“‘Loi…ter’?” she tested it slowly, and Tim smiled.

“‘Loiter,’” she repeated with a satisfied nod and raised the book back to a comfortable eye-level. Tim returned to his research as she resumed her pacing, only to interrupt him again two strides on. “What…does it mean?”

Tim opened his mouth to reply, only for Dick to beat him to it.

“It’s that thing Jason’s been doing for the past hour,” he said derisively, from his spot next to the almost wall-length window. “Out on the porch. Just _standing there_.”

Tim watched his older brother’s back, eyebrows raised, “He’s _still_ out there?”

They’d plopped down on sofas in the lounge over an hour ago with varying tasks of importance – Cass practising her reading, Tim researching his latest case (hacked into the Bat-computer downstairs through his laptop) – for Dick’s benefit.

He’d caught a nasty cold during the winter and it had carried over into spring. Gotham’s generally chilly climate probably wasn’t helping his recovery any, but he _was_ making better progress in Alfred’s care than he would have in New York by himself.

Tim suspected Dick was actually enjoying the excuse to be at the manor, anyway – and loving it even more that his younger siblings were staying over to help him recover. And to keep him company.

Dick didn’t do cooped-up very well, and the four walls of his bedroom had started closing in despite the almost ever-present company. In search of a change of scenery thus, and only _after_ Alfred’s permission of course, they’d moved down to the lounge just off to the side from the foyer.

Lengthy wide windows provided a view of the front yard and the gates in the distance – as well as the porch if you stood just right in front of them, or had been bundled up on the armchair nearest the windows, generally facing the rest of the room, like Dick had been. Tim had turned the seat a little for him, for a better view of the grounds, and had taken a corner of the couch facing the windows for himself; Cass pacing at his back.

The older man had sat gaping for almost a full minute before Tim and Cass had looked up from their respective tasks to notice.

Dick hadn’t believed his eyes, and, pushing blankets aside he’d wandered to the windows in what Tim could only describe as a _trance_.

“Dick?” he’d asked, alarmed, but Dick in his mesmerized state hadn’t even heard. He nearly pressed his nose against the window, through the lace curtain, to see.

“Dick!” Tim had snapped, bounding up from his seat and rushing to his brother’s side, wondering if they’d misdiagnosed him or something. Was his fever up again – was he hallucinating something? “What is it—?” Tim started, grabbing hold of Dick’s arm with both hands, head whipping round to look through the window as well—

His breath caught when he saw him.

“Jason.” Cassandra declared needlessly from just behind them, watching the younger boy from between Tim and Dick’s heads. She’d never actually seen him before – not in the flesh.

She’d left for Hong Kong before he revealed himself resurrected and…slightly insane, the way Tim told the story, but…watching him now, she could hardly believe it was the same boy on their porch Tim had been talking about.

He seemed more… _broken_ , than anything else.

The anger Tim had described was still there, plainly present if residing just beneath the surface now, but…the malice, the vengeance, the _blood-thirst_ Cassandra had imagined in him to match the stories she’d heard was… _strikingly absent_.

Perhaps, if she squinted, she could see where those empty spaces were, where once her imaginings had resided, after all.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Tim’s voice had been fierce, if somewhat strained, his words a mumble through grit teeth, and his grip on Dick’s arm tightening slightly.

It snapped the young man from his bewildered state – he’d thought it a trick of the light, figured he was only tired, when he saw the younger boy coming up the driveway, but…the closer he came, looking so…Dick could only describe it as “ _lost_ ” – the more Dick believed he was real, and believed he _really was_ seeing things all at the same time.

A side-effect of his medicine maybe?

Should he be asking Timmy if he was seeing it, too?

A bubble of joy had threatened to pop in the pit of his stomach and it took every _ounce_ of his being to stop it surging through him and bursting free elatedly – this was almost too good to be true.

He was sick. _Definitely_ sick. In the head.

Only, Timmy _had_ seen him, too; wondering aloud why the hell he was there.

The thought had crossed Dick’s mind as well, and would again over the course of the hour, but he’d pushed it aside initially, to marvel some more at the seemingly impossible fact that his little brother was home.

His little brother _was home_.

And, _of his own volition_.

‘What the hell’ was right.

“Timmy,” Dick had said, Tim relinquishing his hold on Dick’s arm when the older man moved, wrapping the limb about Tim’s shoulders instead. “It’s okay. He’s not here to hurt us. Maybe he just…” Dick had waved his free hand through the air as if to snatch up the right words in passing, only there weren’t any.

“He’s…not doing anything,” Cass had observed with a frown, “Not… _planning_ on doing anything…”

“Maybe we should—” Dick had started, moving as he spoke, hands on Tim’s shoulders, making to go around him to the foyer, to the front door – only to cut himself off when he saw Alfred through the doorway.

Weathered old hand raised at the doorknob, the other pressed properly against the small of his back. Eyes shut, the old man had sighed, _resigned_ , before his hand retreated, was clasped firmly about the wrist with long, calloused fingers instead.

He’d turned, _set_ in his task, and made his way from the room, his back to them, headed perhaps for the kitchen. Head still bowed.

Dick’s shoulders had slumped.

Tim had noticed the butler as well, “What – we’re just leaving him out there?” Dick didn’t know if that was incredulity or indignation.

“Maybe we should—” he’d meant to suggest something specific, but in fact, “…Maybe we _should_. Jason…he’ll _knock_ , or…something, when he’s ready. We shouldn’t force him into it. He’s made it this far on his own, we should respect whatever he decides to do now,” but Dick had sounded decidedly pitiful to Tim’s ears and like he wanted nothing _more_ than to decide _for_ Jason. “Whatever _he decides_ ,” he’d added in a whisper.

Tim had stared at him, a little at a loss for words. Dick had patted his shoulders absently then shuffled back to his chair, snuggled up and kept his gaze on the window.

Tim had followed his movements with a frown, shot a wary scowl out the window, and retreated to his laptop once again.

Dick stayed silent. Cass returned to her muttered reading as she paced up and down in front of the room-wide bookcase, occasionally climbing the sliding ladder to pick a different paperback for perusal. Tim was so caught up in his research; he hadn’t even noticed Dick getting up to go back to the window again.

How long had he been standing there?

The lack of pounding against the front door, or a ringing bell, or angered yelling, or a myriad of echoing gunshots, had Tim of a mind that his supposed-to-be older brother had left the estate. But…apparently not so much.

“Loiter…” Cass leaned over the back of the couch, next to Tim, her eyes on Dick as well. The word had the lilt of a question at the end, but she realised it was wrong and added, “—ing?”

“Apparently,” Tim replied, deadpan, as he set the laptop aside once more and stood.

Joining Dick by the window, he crossed his arms.

Jason stood in virtually the same position as before. Definitely loitering.

“This is ridiculous,” Tim commented, shaking his head. What was Jason thinking?

“He’s…leaving,” Cass mumbled at their backs again, and Tim narrowed his eyes.

Indeed, not a moment later Jason had turned on his heel.

“Leaving,” Dick echoed, distressed, and bolted from the room at once, barely pausing to snap at Tim, “Don’t stop me, Timmy,” when the younger boy tried calling him back.

Dick had the door flung open before Jason had properly reached the steps.

“Jason – come inside,” Tim heard, and shrunk into himself, crossed arms tightening, a little. Frozen beside the window, he watched with a scowl as Dick followed their wayward “sibling” down the way, the front door swinging shut almost inaudibly behind him.

“You do not think he will… _hurt_ Dick,” Cass had taken up Dick’s vacant spot to Tim’s right. It wasn’t a question, but he shook his head slightly and answered anyway.

“No, he…if he wanted us hurt he wouldn’t have just stood on the porch for an hour, I…think,” he sighed, deflated. “I don’t know. Jason…” an exasperated noise escaped him, he couldn’t explain it.

Cass nodded a little though – of course she’d understand. Somewhat, at least.

“But…you’re still…tense?”

Tim sighed again, trying to relax, “I just…don’t trust him, I guess. Not after everything.”

“Dick…trusts him, though.”

“Dick’s…too soft,” Tim mumbled, barely audibly, not sure if he really believed that. It wasn’t that it was a bad thing about his brother, either – being ‘soft.’

Dick cared – _immensely_. About everyone. Even the ones who didn’t seem to deserve it – the misguided ones, like Jason, and the ones who didn’t know better and didn’t seem to care to…like, Damian.

But Tim… _couldn’t_ quite seem to. Couldn’t bring himself to care so devotedly, unconditionally, without judgment, or ridicule, and without _expecting_ to be betrayed.

Don’t get him wrong – Tim did care, _that way_ , for a lot of people – Dick, and Cass, and Bruce, Alfred, Steph—

But Jason…didn’t _deserve_ that kind of love, and Tim simply couldn’t give it away so freely – was baffled by Dick’s ability to and felt… _lesser_ , for his inability to manage it, too. Maybe a little envious of Dick, even.

But Tim saw no logic behind it – it was all emotional, intuitive acrobat, it was just— _Dick_.

All _logic_ , all _reason_ , pointed at Jason simply betraying their trust first chance he got if not only when it suited his agenda, taking advantage of Dick’s devoted attempts at coaxing him back into the family, and blowing it up in their eldest brother’s face – _again_.

_That_ was why Tim was tense.

Tim wasn’t afraid of Jason, but he _was_ scared by him. The lengths he went to. The boundaries he pushed. The things he _did_. Almost unspeakable, unthinkable things that spoke of a madman’s misguided crusade for unfounded revenge.

…

Well— _mostly_ , unfounded.

Bruce was _constant_ – Jason shouldn’t have _expected_ to find the Joker buried.

As for Tim…well, Batman _needed_ a Robin. It had been part dream-come-true, part occupation, part _duty_ , more than anything else. As the boy who’d been watching them – _Bruce_ – fall to pieces, he _couldn’t_ just _stand aside_ and _let it happen_. He’d thought…part of him had thought Jason wouldn’t have wanted that – wanted his… _father_ , to break like that.

But all Jason saw was a pale imitation of who he’d been – a sorry excuse for a substitute to the partner Batman had lost. A damn… _replacement_.

Part of Tim had never meant to stay, would have easily stepped aside for Jason, but…Jason had never even given Tim a chance to explain.

He was surprised to discover how much that _stung_.

This was some sort of trick – Jason just showing up like this. It _had to be_.

“He’s… _broken_ ,” Cass’s quiet proclamation cut through the silence, startling Tim from his thoughts and hastening his now-lowered gaze to the window. If Dick—

But…Cass wasn’t alarmed, and, Tim realized, she hadn’t been referring to Dick.

He blinked, watching Jason – farther down the driveway now, headed for the gate even as Dick followed, hands gesturing as he spoke – and found he looked in perfect health.

“I don’t—”

“Something is… _wrong_.”

Tim glanced briefly at Cass with a pensive frown. Outside, Jason spun to face Dick (a second time), an angry expression on his impossibly youthful face. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d have pegged Jason at the same age as himself. A side-effect of the Pit?

Along with the madness. If something was wrong—

Tim shifted his weight, ready to sprint out there if needed—

But, looking at the exit, he saw Alfred in the foyer again, front door slightly ajar as he peered out.

Fleetingly Tim wondered how much Alfred had wanted to invite Jason inside before. How much he wanted to berate Dick for being outside, and call the both of them in, now…

Alfred was not a fool man – if he still believed in Jason—

Or, maybe…maybe in this one regard, Alfred _was_ being foolhardy.

The old man closed the door and Tim turned quickly back to the window less he was caught staring, in time to watch Dick wave a hand and Jason throw up his own, clearly exasperated. He bowed a mocking little bow before he smirked and turned away.

Dick let him go – if only for a beat, before he rushed after his other brother, clamping a firm – and probably unwelcome – hand onto his shoulder.

…

“What do you mean ‘wrong’?” Tim asked.

Several beats passed as Tim let her gather her words. If he was ever going to learn the truth about Jason’s intentions, his state of mind – his _sanity_ , even – this was it.

“He’s…confused,” she said at last, voice quiet, tone filled with…sympathy. “He came… _home_ ,” she emphasized, and Tim spared her a glance, but he could hardly read her expression. “Only…to _realize_ this is no longer…home. He is…unwelcome. And then – _now_ …he does not know…where to go. He wants to…stay. But…can’t. Knows…he can’t.

“It…hurts,” her voice had dropped into a breathy whisper. “It’s… _painful_ ,” she turned her gaze from the window, eyes narrowed at the floor instead, “To watch.”

Tim stared, a little wide-eyed, not at all certain about how to react to that.

Jason had thought…this was home? He thought he still lived here? Was that what she meant?

…Until he came up to the door and realized it wasn’t true anymore.

Tim couldn’t imagine.

Absently, he shook his head. This… _made no sense_.

When Dick shuffled back into the room, he looked…forlorn. More ill than before he’d left.

“Master Dick,” Alfred appeared over his shoulder to escort him back to bed before Tim could offer the same. Dick nodded, dragging his blanket off the armchair and wrapping it round his shoulders.

“Good idea, Alfie,” he passed by Cass, and Tim, planting a kiss atop each of their heads, smile a little wan but present.

He paused in the doorway to look back at them.

He’d tell them all about it later, and he’d ask Cass what she thought of their lost brother, too – _after_ a well-deserved nap.

In the meantime, though, “He’ll be back,” he promised them.


	40. Loitering ch4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 31 October 2014.
> 
> I'd figured out most of the story-line by this point, and I was diggin' it B)
> 
> Warning for Language (like, the f-word kind :/)

_the need to know_

* * *

“Real courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

 

The ever-increasingly cold breeze nipped at the sides of his face, combed his fringe back from his forehead – a blur of white tipped black in and out of his peripheral like a phantom, a spectre only there when he wasn’t looking – as he marched up the driveway; fists clenched at his sides, steps determined and unfaltering.

By the time he’d reached the ornate gates and pushed them aside, he’d stopped thinking up excuses with which to explain his presence to whoever opened the door.

Not for the first time either, did he find the ease with which the gates parted for him suspicious, and in the same vein he shoved the thought aside, again; no desire to dig too deeply into what _that_ might suggest.

Just as before.

And before…

Only one purpose stuck at the forefront of his mind as he trudged up the way, eyes focused on the looming wooden doors of the manor – imposing and impressive.

For the first time it occurred to him that, he’d never been as in awe of the manor as he might have been – by the time he saw the outside of it, glittering windows in the sparse Gotham sunlight, big brown doors, balconies and dense, flowering shrubs, sprouting creepy crawlies like veins up the walls, he’d already spent a night inside.

He’d never glimpsed the splendour from afar and paused, gaping up at its grey stone walls, stunned to silence by its majesty. Not only for the look of it, either, but for the legacy it carried.

Jason could actually respect the latter. Could understand the origin of the daunting weight settling on his shoulders whenever he approached the estate and had to look up to see the high rooftop, the castle-like cornices adorning the manor like a crown.

He had to wonder if he was the only one under the invisible pressure – as the lowest, most unforgivable, treacherous, wayward son, adopted though he’d been, of Wayne there was?

Were a million Wayne-eyes, ghostly apparitions in the windows, trained on him whenever he sauntered down the driveway – piercing gazes narrowed; judging, disapproving of him, and wishing him away by sheer force of will?

Perhaps that was why he loitered, rebellious by nature – a nature not of theirs – to taunt them back? To shuck off the heavy weight of their gazes and drop it at their own doorstep, only to stay defiant in their sights as long as he could manage rather than skip away, lighter than before, or enter, even, into their midst, free of their scorn – but – where they could not see him anymore…?

What was a rebellion worth when no one was looking?

That was only a rambunctious child playing pretend by himself.

Jason was no longer a child.

…

He did not come to be defiant, either, though.

Not this time.

It was his own fault he was so out of the loop.

He’d spent the last few weeks in a safe-house, perfectly determined not to set foot outside, where the world was steadily turning shades of molten gold and yellow ochre, deep dark brown, burnt umber and bright orange tinged red against a backdrop of dreary forever-grey.

Only when he could finally hold it no longer – a desperate, burning desire to _know_ a fire kindled in his belly – and it was plain they were never going to find him, he was too well-hidden – and they, perchance, too busy to try – did he at last leave the safety of his nest, determined in his task.

He had to know.

He had to _know_.

If they’d been too late.

If they’d _been_ at all.

If all his effort had been in vain.

He could _feel_ the hope inside, wishing it hadn’t been for nothing, though he had no courage to voice it or even properly _think_ it.

Jason couldn’t dare to hope.

Not when it involved _him_.

There had been no hope for Jason himself, after all – in a warehouse, a gazillion miles from home, bruised, broken and bloodied. Betrayed.

…A lot of b’s going on.

…

— _Shit_.

When had it become a joke?

Dammit.

That had been the entire _point_ though, hadn’t it? To be _funny_.

 _Hopelessly_ _funny_.

Why would this time be any different?

Why would there be any hope for the Repla—

—but.

Hell.

He didn’t want to think like _that_ , either.

Best to just not think at all.

Better simply to act.

He was good at that. Impulsive, sure – on occasion, he wouldn’t deny. But, more often than not he liked to consider himself a _bit_ of a strategist.

He liked to plan it out. Assess the situation.

Contemplate every possible route.

Weigh one outcome against another. Evaluate the consequences.

Pick a path.

It only ever _seemed_ impulsive, to everyone else.

Except when it actually _was_.

Maybe this had been, just a little.

Because shit. He was _thinking_ about it now – wavering.

He stopped abruptly, hand raised inches from the door, frozen more than halfway through a motion that would have undoubtedly caused a hollow echo reverberating through the halls inside.

He very suddenly found it hard to breathe – consequences flitting through his mind, a sickening fear spreading its fingers through the fiery _want_ to _know_ , oddly unafraid of the flames, seeming instead immune and intent on smothering them.

What the hell was he doing?

Almost thankfully, he was spared having to answer that thought, when the door to his right – not the one beyond his raised left fist – swung unexpectedly open.

For shit’s sake he actually _jumped_.

A _little_ , dammit.

Only a little – and why the hell not? He was on edge. Even fricking _Nightwing_ would’ve pissed his panties. Probably.

“Barbie,” he very nearly _croaked_ , his throat was so dry.

Not that she was any kind of Barbie-doll – in the sense of long-legged and tanned (though she had been that before, still kind of was), platinum blonde and baby blue-eyed with a red-lipped smile and a freaky fashion fetish for all things neon pink.

The nickname just kind of fell off his lips, habit now more than anything else because he knew it annoyed her – or maybe it was just the _way_ he always said it – plainly spiteful and obnoxious – because at present, she didn’t have her eyes narrowed at him, no twitch at the corner of her – sometimes red, actually – lips in response to his address, which had been decidedly devoid of the usual tone.

Part of him was a little _too_ surprised to see her, because he actually hadn’t – not like this – since his return from the literal grave.

In hindsight he should probably have expected her presence though – she shared in Dick’s sentiments that they were all somehow _family_ in some form or another, though she’d never been considered a sister. You don’t lock lips with your sisters, after all (— _Dick_ ).

The pointedly-being-ignored bubble of hope in Jason’s chest swelled a little at Barbara’s presence, naively thinking if she were here then probably his replacement was, too, and they _had_ found the idiot, after all.

It was a fleeting feeling, however, because Jason noticed almost at once the swell around Barbara’s – blue, in fact, and bespectacled – eyes, one part sleep-deprivation, one part resultant of too many tears, made doubly obvious by the red rims around those blue orbs, and little scarlet veins adding to the evidence of exhaustion as they criss-crossed their way through the white.

The bubble in his chest seemed fit to burst with strain – of fear and disappointment this time. Had they been too late? Had _he_ been too late?

Was this Barbara mourning _another_ dead Robin…? Had she come over to…comfort Grayson, probably, who would be a blubbering mess after losing another brother – and Alfred ( _oh, Alfred)_ , and…and Bruce.

Did his little—

Did his _replacement_ have a glass case with a tattered uniform to match his own?

What did _his_ plaque say?

_A Good Robin._

…

_Another Good Son._

Jason bristled, and then felt a little ashamed for it.

If Tim was dead – and it took every _ounce_ of his being to not just assume the worst based on Barbara’s eyes alone – well, then…

 _Shit_.

And being jealous would be petty.

“Jason,” she said, and Barbara’s tone was a practised calm. Jason realised she’d sat there for all of ten seconds before she’d spoken.

 _Sat_. There.

Confined to her wheelchair.

…

Maybe that had been part of his surprise at seeing her, even though he’d known about it. Still.

Talia al’Ghul – Batman’s baby-mommy and Jason’s…whatever the hell she’d been (saviour, mentor, mother-figure, friend, person-thing) – had kept Jason well-appraised of the Bat-family’s fortunes and misfortunes once she’d dipped him in a healing Lazarus Pit that either returned his mind to its former – albeit teenage – glory, or screwed with his sanity – the toss was still up on that one.

It was how Jason first learned of his replacement. And of the new, suspiciously quiet Batgirl that resembled her mentor so much it was stomach-curdling – to anyone she crossed paths with anyway.

And, of course, of the Joker and his still-beating black heart, still-breathing lungs, even though he’d _murdered_ Batman’s Robin – and then some.

There hadn’t been any vengeance for Barbara either, though, granted, she hadn’t _died_ like he had.

Still, Joker’s bullet could very well have done more than to paralyse her. Jason had idly wondered at some point, if she had died as well, would Batman have been driven to revenge after all? At the loss of a second partner?

Would Commissioner Gordon have avenged his daughter if the Bat would not?

His daughter who also just happened to be Batgirl.

Would they have done it together – for his daughter, and for his long-dead son?

Would Babs have come back from the dead, too?

…Babs.

Dickiebird called her that.

 _He_ might have lost it, Jason mused, if Joker had killed the always-assumed love of his life.

It would have broken him, afterward. Jason knew that much. Knew about Dick’s reaction to the thought of Joker hurting Tim, and knew about his reaction to him hurting the Joker to the point he was _basically_ dead – if only briefly.

Dickiebird wouldn’t survive another loss of control like that. He’d be drowning in _misplaced_ – because there’d be nothing guilty behind that madman getting what he deserves – guilt.

And _dammit_.

If Timmy was dead, Jason was doing it himself.

If Timmy was dead…Jason’s eyes very fleetingly flickered to the second floor windows, as if he could see Dick standing there. In the middle of his room, fists clenched, lips twisted, teeth grit in a snarl – the picture of hopeless frustration, bound by the Bat’s cruel, unfair sense of morality ingrained in the marrow of his bones.

 _Don’t fret so much, Dickie. I’ll make sure at least_ one _Robin gets the justice we all deserve._

“I assume you’re here to see Tim.”

“No,” he answered at once, Barbara’s voice snapping his gaze back to her and his thoughts from its morbid revenge-takings.

Her eyes did narrow at him then, lips thinning as she regarded him, and Jason cringed inwardly at the quickness of his answer.

“No,” he repeated more slowly, more calmly. “I was just—” but no, he had no more excuses, but no desire to actually explain his presence either. “I don’t want to see him,” he settled on instead, firmly, because it was the truth.

He only wanted to know. He had no desire to see.

“Wait,” he started, only just realising what he was saying – what she was saying. “Ti—the replacement is… _here_?”

Barbara leaned back in her chair, fingers tapping at an armrest. She nodded slowly, after a second, ducked her head, “Yes.”

There was very little relief in her tone. It sounded more ominous than anything else.

“And, he’s…”

“Alive,” she supplied, which told him absolutely nothing.

Nothing good, at least.

Their once more littlest bird was _not_ okay.

Jason’s bubble of hope had disintegrated entirely.

“I…” he started into the silence. Kid wasn’t dead, at least, but he wasn’t alright either. Jason didn’t need to know more than that. He _certainly_ didn’t want a catalogue of the little bird’s injuries – physical, mental, emotional, and/or whatever shit else there was.

He was not okay. That was enough.

Apparently, there was vengeance to be had, after all.

“Got to—” he was going to finish that sentence with ‘go,’ and then leave very determinedly, but—

“Sorry, I’m ready now, we can— _holy crap_ , you’re Jason Todd.”

“No kidding,” he replied, eyes narrowing, fingers twitching with irritation.

Stephanie Brown was – more the Barbie-doll personified than Barbara – an ex-Robin, too. Cut from the same cloth of abundant “recklessness” as Jason himself, _apparently_. It got her fired before it got her killed, and then she died, anyway – only she _didn’t_ – and now she was Batgirl, which…the Dark Knight either had no say about, or didn’t actually mind, after all.

Truth be told, Jason should admire her tenacity or something, but at the moment all he could manage was annoyance.

Stephanie was Tim’s ex-girlfriend – and apparently he had Dick’s same penchant for staying friends with exes – and he was upstairs, somehow _not okay_ , and she was down here _smiling_.

There was a bounce in her step as she appeared behind Barbara’s wheelchair, a lightness to her tone, a pleasant curve to her lips and a happy glint in her – completely different form Barbara’s – blue eyes (even if they were also _obviously_ freshly dried of tears).

It grated at Jason’s skin.

Jason couldn’t imagine even _Dickie_ – who was more often than not considered the sole definition of happiness, for shit’s sakes – _smiling_ while their little—

 _Dammit_.

His. _His_ – as in _Dick’s_ – little brother was somewhere upstairs, not okay.

“Wow, that’s one intense bat-glare,” she remarked suddenly, blinking at Jason before she leaned a little towards Barbara, “Or is that just his normal expression…?”

The corner of Barbara’s lips quirked up into a little smirk, briefly, but she didn’t reply. Stephanie didn’t seem to actually want an answer anyway, though Jason didn’t give her chance to—

“Don’t compare me to him,” he snapped, and then felt stupid, because it sounded childish.

The girls didn’t reply. Instead, Stephanie said, “I assume you’re here to see Tim, and Bruce.”

Barbara shifted in her seat.

“ _No_ ,” Jason scathed, harsher than he would have if she hadn’t mentioned Bruce.

Stephanie frowned and pursed her lips like she disapproved of that about as much as Jason had of her smile.

“Well, you—”

“—should,” came, quietly, with the swing of the left-sided – from where Jason stood – door, enough to reveal a short, half-Asian girl, dark hair pulled back, her eyes dark brown and peering up at him as she curled around the door, a tattered-looking book Jason couldn’t see the cover of clutched to her chest.

 _Damn, Replacement_ – apparently Dick really was rubbing off on the kid – who else was going to jump out of the woodwork just to see him?

Huntress? Batwoman? _Cat_ woman? _Wonder Girl?_

That last one actually seemed likely.

And then, none of them did – as secret identities went, the three Batgirls were the only ones in the know. Jason was only mostly assuming. And yes, he was just going to collectively refer to them as the Batgirls now, for ease of monologuing – though he knew Barbara went by Oracle now and Cassandra, that was her name, had passed on the mantle to Stephanie.

She was stationed mostly in Hong Kong, according to Jason’s intel – no longer Talia, as a side – but Jason had glimpsed her flitting across rooftops, either patrolling or searching for Tim – or both – the past month. Two.

…

Almost three.

…

…His stomach twisted just thinking about it, so he stopped.

Cassandra Cain was a weapon, Jason had thought, watching her work, too curious not to, even though he really hadn’t had the time – his lead had already been old by the time he picked up the trail and getting colder by the second. Still, it was _him_ , so it was worth it.

Pretty Bat was lithe and agile enough to rival Dick – flexible in a way few of them truly mastered – and tall, despite her lack of _actual_ height, fierce and commanding enough to rival Bruce – invoking fear with little more than a _look_.

She went by Black Bat, Jason had heard, which, he’d thought, was only a little redundant since bats were already black – or so went the general assumption, anyway, but who was he to criticize, really? He went by the colour of his hood. Not technically, but if you didn’t know the history there you wouldn’t think anything else.

“You… _want_ to.”

It took him a moment to realise what she’d said.

His arm had come down from the door at some point he didn’t remember, and he clenched his fists at his sides now, so tight the leather of his gloves squeaked with the strain.

“Like _hell_ I do!” he snapped, glaring daggers at her.

She didn’t even flinch.

“ _Hey_ , no need to be such an a—”

But Barbara’s hand came up, almost lazily, and Stephanie cut herself off, just as Jason turned his glare back on her.

“Let’s just go, Steph,” Barbara said, tone dry. “Jason’s a big boy. He knows what he’s doing. And I’m late, besides.”

She regarded him over the rim of her glasses, and Stephanie didn’t hide her scowl either, grabbing hold of the wheelchair’s handles. Cassandra made no move to help, and Barbara’s fingers curled securely round the armrests as Stephanie made to wheel her right down the porch’s steps.

She only made it so far as the first edge before Jason had come round to the front of Barbie’s perch, fingers reaching for the armrests, only _just_ not touching them as he met Barbara’s gaze, “Let me…”

She didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, though Stephanie had halted the chair a little abruptly. Jason chose to ignore that. Both of that – all of that, really, he needed no remarks on his behaviour. It was the decent thing to do and that was it.

He had no doubt Stephanie and Barbara had probably done this before, or else strong little Cassandra might have jumped in – not that Jason knew enough to assume, but she was a Bat, it seemed to go without saying. Only, he was there and doing nothing, plus Barbara seemed peeved at him, which sucked for some reason, and he didn’t know how else to apologize for whatever the hell he’d done _this_ time.

Gaze unwavering, which only served to make his skin crawl, Barbara released the armrests and brought her hands up, making room for him. Grip sturdy, he gave Stephanie a quick glance before they lifted the wheelchair in tandem, hovering it just enough to move it smoothly over the steps and place it safely down on solid ground again. Jason kept his eyes on his hands, well-aware of Barbara’s on his face.

Leaning a little forward put her face inches from his own, still bent forward as he was, and Barbara’s hands came back down to settle on his wrists, squeezing slightly. He flinched, looking up at her.

Her eyes looked hazy, but serious, through the glass, and her deep red hair framed her face, spilled over her shoulders in waves of _fire_ and _blood_.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she said, so low he didn’t think the others could hear, and Jason’s brow furrowed – she couldn’t mean this. “For what you did for Tim.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he replied, just as quiet, if so much more strained, before, jaw firmly set, he made to straighten, intent on forcefully plucking his arms from her grip, but she let him go without protest and he stepped back, trying to remember how to breathe.

Stephanie gave him a pensive look he pointedly ignored, even as Barbara turned her gaze away, started pushing herself in the direction of the car. “Let’s go, Steph, Alfred shouldn’t be long.”

“Right…” and she wandered after Barbara, Jason’s gaze following them both for a moment – he hadn’t even seen the car parked off to the side when he’d approached the manor, too fixated on the doors.

That right there was an _excellent_ display of his night-work skills.

Alfred was probably driving them home, but the car in question was much too expensive to be anyone’s but Bruce Wayne. Jason contemplated how _not long_ Alfred would take and how fast he’d need to walk to get back to the gates and disappear without them passing him, when—

“Wait,” Cassandra spoke, not as quiet as she had before, but still as firm, and Jason, skittish as a cat for crying out loud, felt his shoulders twitch. The shorter girl – by at least half a head – skipped down the steps towards him, holding out her book, pointing one finger at it, “Read. Please.”

Jason snatched it only a little less politely than he could have, still a little irked, and read the title aloud, “ _Beauty and the—_ ” he cut off, not only recognizing the too-large, slanted and half-crooked letters scribbled with a thick Sharpie, but the roughly bound book with its thick cover and curled pages as well. He knew if he opened the book there’d be a couple pages at the beginning in his own handwriting, the pencilled words probably faded and the paper yellowed with age, the rest neatly typed out on thick white sheets, finishing the story. “… _Beast_. This is mine,” he finished with a stunned mumble, before he gathered himself enough to demand, “Where the _hell_ did you get this?”

“I’m afraid that was my doing…Jason,” came the reply, even as Jason looked up to glare at Cassandra – who had her head curiously tilted at him, but said nothing. She hadn’t been the one to speak; instead, the culprit stood just over her shoulder – tall and slim, and forever dressed in a neat black and white suit as if he owned absolutely nothing else—

 _Alfred_.

There had been only the _briefest_ of pauses before Alfred had said his name, as though he’d never hesitated, but that only made the absence of ‘ _Master_ ’ all the more striking. Jason was no longer a master in the manor.

“My apologies, sir. Miss Cassandra expressed the desire to read to young Master Tim,” Jason only _just_ managed not to twitch. “And as you might recall, Master Bruce has a large collection of frightening variety, but alas. None seemed appropriate for Miss Cassandra,” he smiled at her briefly, and only then did the girl taker her eyes off Jason to smile back. Jason would have shifted his weight, or looked at her properly when she moved, if he wasn’t so frozen. “I directed her to your collection instead…” Alfred’s weary eyes fell on the book Jason was unconsciously clutching with all his fingers, and rested a gloved old palm on the cover. Alfred didn’t look at him when he spoke again, but Jason couldn’t keep his eyes off the old man’s face – it had been _too fucking long._

“I’m afraid I’d quite forgotten your penchant for rewriting library books in your own hand, before you could type them out. Cheaper than buying them, you used to say. More honest than simply keeping one. Practice, besides. And I believe, apart from your many Robin trinkets, your library card was your most prized possession.”

Jason couldn’t add to the conversation for the lump in his throat, though he did manage a weak nod. Alfred’s head came up and Jason lowered his gaze, no desire to catch sight of whatever disappointed expression Alfred felt fit to grace him with. The old man’s hand slipped from the book to straighten his coat.

“ _Do_ step inside, sir,” Alfred said, in that tone Jason had heard so many times as Robin and brooked no argument. “Before you catch a cold. For all that winter is on the rise still, the chill is hardly bearable.”

And then he was gone, stepping almost regally towards the car. He’d started it up and was backing out the driveway before the feeling returned to Jason’s fingers.

For all that he’d been “saved” from the streets and adopted by Bruce, was trained by him, had been his partner, his failure, had called him… _Dad_ , on occasion…Alfred was the one who’d raised him.

A single one-sided conversation with the man and Jason had the same sickening churn in his gut that he had months ago – when he’d called Tim _Timmy_ , of all the damn things.

“You’re more than welcome, you know…”

Jason’s head snapped up, a firm scowl on his face as he locked eyes with Dick, who stood on the porch’s first step. Jason shoved the book at Cassandra, not quite bothering for her to actually _take_ it before he let go. For all her grace in a mask and cape roaming through darkness, the girl scrambled awkwardly to stop the book from falling. Jason had spun around to leave before he could tell if she’d managed.

“ _Wait_ ,” Dick called, _of course_. “Where are you going?”

There was an itch between Jason’s shoulder blades. A quick, throbbing pulse in his neck. A twist to his stomach and his head ached. Honestly, he couldn’t care less where he went as long as he went _away_. But he thought of Timmy. Still not okay.

“Something I got to do,” he answered offhandedly, though his tone was strained, throat still dry, not certain why he was replying in the first place.

Though he’d started walking off, and not exactly slowly either, he could still hear Cassandra’s quiet input – to Dick – “The Joker.”

He quickened his pace, clenched his fists, and would have marched right down to the gates without falter, no matter _what the hell_ Dick tried to say to stop him – dead or alive, replacement or not, Tim deserved a little justice; they _all_ did – only—

Of all the things Jason thought Dick could _possibly_ have come up with, _this_ never even _made_ the list, and hearing it Jason couldn’t do anything else _but_ stop.

“Joker’s _dead_ , Jason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want to skip to chapter 48 for chapter 5.


	41. Thought I Saw Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day at college we analysed this short story, entitled _Eendag dag ek ek sien bloed_ , by Zirk van den Berg, and it made me think of Dick Grayson for some reason, and thus this short little AU thing was born. You can read an English version of _Eendag dag ek ek sien bloed_ here: http://saybooksonline.com/free-fiction/bloody-kid/

I brought sandwiches to school for Dick Grayson. He and his father lived off a charity fund set up by the Wayne Foundation for struggling families in Gotham’s more under-privileged neighbourhoods. People said the accident that killed Dick’s mother and crippled his father, was no accident.

Dick’s family was originally from out of town, just the three of them.

_The Flying Graysons_ were a trapeze act for Haly’s Circus. The circus train rolled into Gotham in the middle of the Festive Season and dampened everyone’s holiday spirits when the Graysons finished off the show with their daring trapeze act – the two adults somersaulting simultaneously at one point during the routine, and grabbing hold of their trapezes once more, only to find ropes snapping, their gravity-defying ties severed and the pull of the earth forcing them down.

The net below was sabotaged as well, and Dick’s father, who hit it first, broke the tension with his weight and snapped a leg at an odd, irreparable angle. Dick’s mother, with no net to break her fall, fell to her death.

The Grayson pair stayed behind in Gotham, thus, charity cases for billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne – Dick’s father no longer able to work for the circus and too grief-stricken and traumatized to let Dick continue performing.

Apparently, people said, the “accident” had been a warning for the circus, from crime lord Zucco, in an attempt to convince Mister Haly the circus _needed_ to pay protection money. But that’s just what people said. The circus didn’t perform a second night that year.

Or so I was told.

I don’t know.

All I _do know_ is that Dick was always hungry, and I was always bringing him sandwiches. He was a little tall for his age, but then he sort of got stuck there and stayed short later on. He was thin and wiry, and always covered in scrapes and scabs – also on his face. We sort of admired him and longed to be as tough as we thought he was.

During break, we would gather around him in a cluster, by the jungle gym, egging him on to show us his stunt – “Come _on_ , Dick, _show us!_ ”

Dick would duck his head a little, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth, before he’d glance at me and I’d nod and he’d perform the stunt.

We’d stand back a little, in a half-circle around him. Dick would look around, catching sight of each of us, meeting eyes with everyone, his smile almost evident. He’d kick the biggest pebbles on the ground between us and him, so they bounced off to the side, before stepping onto the second-lowest rung of the jungle gym ladder behind him. Clinging to it with one hand, he’d grin – big and wide and bright – at his audience, taking a deep bow with his free arm bent in front of his waist.

Sometimes, we’d clap a little.

Coming up, his face would be serious again, only the faintest little smile at the corner of it.

He would stand completely unmoving, _stiff_ , with his arms tight against his sides and his hands clenched into fists.

We would watch, wide-eyed.

Dick would lean forward, painstakingly slow, his body straight as a rod, fingers clutching at the seams of his pants.

It always goes slow, at first. His heels lift a little, as much as they can on the jungle gym’s pipe-like step – sometimes, he actually stands on the tiptoes of his abused shoes.

He picks up speed, then, almost abruptly.

_Sometimes_ – on the days we clap a little – he quickly spreads his arms in those last moments, and for a fleeting, frozen second, he appears to be _flying_ off the jungle gym step—

And then he hits the ground with a loud _thud_ , face on the gravel.

There’s a loud, joyous cheer. Dick rolls over, and stretches out his hand to take his sandwich from me, face split with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November of 2014 was my short-lived era of "one-shot" writing, starting with this.


	42. Broken-winged Robins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to TIMStalks. Where Timmy stalks. :|  
> :P

“Timothy,” a heavy hand landed on the twelve year old boy’s shoulder, nearly startling him out of his seat – a flash and a shutter-sound accompanying his startled cry.

Tim looked up, cheeks colouring, whilst his father patted his back and chuckled good-naturedly.

“Good to see you concentrating so hard, son, but I hadn’t meant to scare you that bad.”

“It’s, er…it’s fine,” Tim smiled weakly at his father, shifting a little in his seat and surreptitiously pulling his camera closer to his chest.

Jack Drake’s smile was almost warm. He gestured at Tim’s camera. “What are you doing, then, son? You’ve been out here for hours,” it was only just not an outright rebuke.

Jack looked around at their expansive back yard and Tim’s eyes made a sweep of the view as well.

He shrugged, partially in reply, and partially to shuck off his father’s still-lingering hand. It felt very much like a commanding grip rather than a companionable one.

Tim was starting to wonder why his father had actually come out to find him – it could only mean his parents wanted him inside again for something. And Tim had only just started getting some good shots…

“Just testing out the new lens…zoom’s great,” he replied quietly, peering up at his father, still feeling the heat in his face from being caught so off guard before.

In Tim’s defence, he’d had absolutely no reason to expect any kind of interruption – least of all from one of his parents.

“Photographing what, then?” it didn’t sound like interest so much as… Tim couldn’t describe.

“Robins, mostly…” he replied, only half-dishonest.

Jack nodded, seemingly thoughtful, before he finally released Tim in favour of pulling the second chair closer and plopping down almost right next to Tim.

Tim tried not to stare. Or gape.

“Bird-watching,” almost a derisive snort. “An idle past-time, don’t you think, son?”

Oh. It was to better lecture, then.

Oh well.

“Not _really_ ,” Tim hedged. “It’s…like people-watching. I’m…honing my observation skills on a simpler target, is all,” Tim shrugged, tried a smile. “Plus, I…have to test the lens somehow,” he shifted the camera in his grip in indication, and ducked his head almost instinctively – mentally berating himself; his mother didn’t approve of that.

“What have you taken so far, then?” his father questioned, gaze sweeping across the lawn again. “I don’t see any robins…”

“They’re by the trees mostly,” Tim replied, slipping too easily into the lie, feeling too comfortable there. “And the fountain. I got a really good shot before…but they’ve flown off by now,” he added, gaze lingering on the fountain several miles down the way, in the centre of his mother’s rose garden than wasn’t _really_ hers at all.

Jack scratched at his jaw, leaned forward across the table and gestured to Tim’s camera, “Let’s see, then.”

“Oh,” Tim said, a little surprised, quickly switching to his photos and flitting through them on the screen in search of the only real birds he’d taken. “It’s really just the one…” finding the red-breasted robins, filling up the entirety of the screen (the zoom really was great), one holding it’s wing awkwardly while the other seemed to fuss over the smaller bird where they were perched on the fountain’s edge, Tim moved his camera around for Jack to see.

He didn’t relinquish it to his father’s hold even as the older man laid a hand on it as if to take it, though.

“Hmmm…fair enough,” he mused, almost begrudgingly. “What have you observed, then?”

“It has a bad wing,” Tim leaned a little closer to point. “See?”

Jack squinted, then huffed, “If you say so,” he stood abruptly, and Tim pulled his camera back to his side. “Come inside soon,” meaning anywhere between now and the next two minutes. “Your mother and I have news.”

“Okay,” Tim said, but the man was already crossing the porch towards the back door.

Tim only followed him with his eyes for a moment before he turned back in his seat, raising the camera to his eye and finding the fountain.

Turning the lens to zoom in as far as it would go he shifted his sights to the trees just beyond.

He adjusted the focus, bringing the deep green leaves into perspective until he found the usual gap to peer through, and changed the focus again to concentrate on the image beyond the trees.

Past the edge of the Drake-estate, coming slowly into view, was their neighbour’s back yard – the Wayne estate.

Coincidentally perched in perfect view of Tim’s camera, was a lanky dark-haired young man, sitting cross-legged on the lawn, a wide smile on his face.

Tim clicked the shutter.

Dick Grayson was Mr Wayne’s ward, visiting from Blüdhaven, Tim knew. Had been for a few weeks.

Dick laughed, and Tim could only imagine what it sounded like, while he tried to grab hold of the boy next to him – Jason Todd, Mr Wayne’s adopted son.

Another press of the shutter-button.

Jason Todd was a little older than Tim, with the same dark hair as Dick, and Tim himself, but Tim hardly ever saw him smile at anyone unless it was a smirk or a sneer, or an arrogant grin.

Or one _other_ , but even that was nothing like Dick’s – bright and open.

Jason Todd tucked his arm close to his chest and Dick spoke, though Tim couldn’t tell what he was saying, and eventually the younger boy rolled his eyes and relinquished his arm to the older man’s hold.

Dick grasped it, gentle but enthusiastic, and poised a thick dark marker above the blank white cast Jason Todd’s broken arm was encased in.

His hand moved, doodling something Tim couldn’t see with the angle Dick was working from, but Tim took the picture anyway. Jason Todd scowled, but Tim focused on his face and waited patiently.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for the smallest, rarest of almost-smiles to grace the boy’s lips, and, eternally satisfied, Tim pressed the button one last time.

The shutter sounded, and Tim watched through the advanced zoom for only a moment more before he lowered the camera and switched it off.

Time to face his parents. With any luck they were headed off to another foreign country for some work-related thing or another, and Tim could return to his perch and continue Robin-watching in awe-filled isolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom made me believe Tim grew up next to Wayne Manor.  
> In my defence, I. Had almost zero access to comic books, so *shrug* What do I know about anything, really. XP


	43. Some song-inspired Fics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let me fall_  
>  Red Hands  
> Already There 

**{Let me Fall}**

_Josh Groban_

_“I will dance so freely_  
“Holding on to no one  
“You can hold me only  
“If you too will fall  
“Away from all these  
“Useless fears and chains

_“Someone I am_  
“Is waiting for my courage  
“The one I want  
“The one I will become  
“Will catch me

_“So let me fall_  
“If I must fall  
“I won't heed your warnings  
“I won't hear.”

Dick knows Bruce means it well.

He knows his new guardian is only worried.

But…

Bruce doesn’t _understand_.

Dick doesn’t _want_ to stop doing this.

He doesn’t want to be _afraid_ of it, for the rest of his life, because of a crime directed at his family out of sheer convenience.

His parents’ memory deserve more than that, Dick thinks.

They had taught him to be strong.

They had taught him to be free.

They had taught him to be himself, and they had allowed him to discover who that was.

And _this_ was it.

Dick refused to bury this side of him in grief and longing and terror and _overwhelming_ sadness, because he was alone now. Because they picked the wrong town to perform in. Because of something no one could have seen coming, and…no one could have prevented.

Bruce insisted on that – Dick was only a kid, who _listened_ to a kid? No one had, and Dick’s parents were dead now. It was tragic, and everyone said so, and it made Dick sad – in his _soul_ – but—

It wasn’t Dick’s fault.

Batman reiterated the statement, even as _he’d_ listened.

Distantly, Dick wonders what Batman would think of this…?

Does Gotham’s Dark Knight have a family waiting at home? Do they share him with the night? Or…is he a little like Dick? And Bruce?

Alone now.

Were his parents vigilantes, too?

Is he keeping their memory alive the way Dick wants to with his parents’ as well?

That’s why Dick is here.

That’s why his chalked and bandaged hands grip the trapeze as tightly as they can, why the tips of his toes curl around the edge of the platform he’s on.

He doesn’t _want_ to be afraid of this.

That’s why he’d ignored Bruce’s warning – to think about it, thoroughly.

Because Dick doesn’t _want_ to think about it.

He’s too afraid he’d change his mind.

He doesn’t _want_ to change his mind.

So Dick had snuck off, and found himself now at the scene of the crime – what had been _home_ for him not too long ago.

He needs to do this, though, and he knows of no other place to do it at.

Bruce doesn’t know, and Dick doesn’t want to think about how disappointed he might be if he finds out.

For the moment, Dick doesn’t want to care about that.

He _misses this_. _Too much_.

And he doesn’t want to become afraid of it.

He has to be free again.

He needs to fly, even if he flies alone.

It’s a rush, dropping from the platform, feeling the air sift swiftly past his bare arms and legs, as if he’s being carried by it.

But when the rope snaps it’s no longer supporting him in his flight, it is instead letting him go, and he falls – _falls_ through it.

He’s upside down, somehow, staring at the top of the tent, where it curves in elegant waves, all coming together at the highest point, and he wonders, idly, if that was the last thing his parents had seen as well.

Or was it him? – on the platform just at the edge of his vision.

For a moment, he thinks he can see himself sitting there – stunned and silent and staring and _afraid_.

Almost at once he’s no longer falling, the shifting air around him replaced with a strong, solid grip – arms enveloping all of him, holding him close, burying his face into a broad chest.

He’s sniffling, and clutching at fabric and armour, and it’s dark, and he’s crying, and when he speaks he barely hears himself, voice cracking and small, whispering brokenly, “What are you doing here…?”

“Oh, Dickie… _Chum_ , you didn’t think I’d let you fall?”

* * *

**{Red Hands}**

_Walk off the Earth_

_“I realize that I’ve got red hands, I wanna change this_  
“Don’t ask me why I choose to lie, I stay blind, oh  
“It’s clear to me that you are fuming too, your accusations are burning through  
  
“That gun is loaded, but it’s not in my hand  
“The fire burns, I’m not the one with the match, man  
“That gun is loaded, but it’s not in my hand.”

“It wasn’t _necessary_ , Jason,” Tim says. He’s calm, despite the fierce tone, because there’s really no other way to be with Jason less you’d like to set him off. Tim wouldn’t.

He still _needs_ to get his point across, though.

If they’re going to see this case through, Jason has to know Tim expects him to stop killing every other low-life they rough-up for intel.

Jason, of _course_ , knows precisely what Tim is referring to, and doesn’t even bother playing dumb.

“Course it was, or I wouldn’t have done it,” he says easily, and steamrolls right over Tim’s following protest as he continues, “Some scumbags just don’t _deserve_ seconds, Timmy,” Tim sort of bristles at the nickname, but lets it go.

Jason keeps talking even as he shuts the old window, drops the cheap blinds and peers through them before shutting those, too. “All the _kids_ …” he sounds sort of distant as he speaks, a little lost in a memory, maybe, and it inspires Tim to silence. “The girls, the boys…the _lives_. You can’t fault me for that, Tim,” only at the end does Jason look over at him.

Tim straightens a little, eyes narrowing, as he contemplates a reaction.

“Besides,” Jason adds before Tim can settle on a response, and he sounds a little more like himself. “If you _wanted_ to stop me, you should’ve tried.”

“I did,” Tim replies at once, but it’s one of those automatic reactions people have when they’re accused of something and Tim doesn’t feel it.

Jason snorts, goes back to peering through the blinds, keeping a gap open with two fingers. “Should’ve tried harder.”

Tim doesn’t know how to argue against that.

If he _wants_ to.

Maybe Jason’s not wrong.

Maybe Tim’s crossed a line.

Jason had abandoned his gloves and his hood on the counter nearby, and Tim’s eyes trace the curves of his exposed knuckles, for a moment convinced they’re red and bloody – had Jason hit _that_ hard?

But, Tim blinks, and it’s gone.

Compelled, he looks down at his own palms, the back of his hands – still glove-clad.

“You see it, too, don’t you?” Jason’s voice is quiet again.

His hands drift into Tim’s vision, hovering palms-up above Tim’s.

“Red hands…?”

Tim shudders.

* * *

**{I’m Already There}**

_Lonestar_

_“A little voice came on the phone  
“Said _ "Daddy when you coming home" __  
“He said the first thing that came to his mind

_“I'm already there_  
“Take a look around  
“I'm the sunshine in your hair  
“I'm the shadow on the ground  
“I'm the whisper in the wind  
“I'm your imaginary friend  
“And I know I'm in your prayers  
“Oh I'm already there.”

It’s Damian’s voice on the other end when Alfred relinquishes the phone to “the children, Master Bruce,” and the nine year old wastes no time in getting to the point, “Father. I demand to know when you will be home.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into a little smirk, as it so often does around his youngest.

_“He only just got there, doofus,”_ Bruce can hear in the background and it sounds like Jason, of course.

_“Put it on speaker, Little D,”_ Dick is saying, even as Damian _Tt_ ’s in response to Jason.

“What?” he snaps at Dick then and his voice is a little further away when he next says, “How?” leading Bruce to believe he’s regarding the phone with a critical eye now. Bruce can almost see it.

_“Like this!”_ Timmy pipes up – for all that he’s older than Damian and no longer the youngest, Tim will always be _Timmy_.

“Get _off_ , Drake! I can do it,” Damian snaps – there’s a muffled _thump_ and a yelp, and then Jason’s voice snapping—

_“Hey! That was uncalled for, you little demon—”_

_“Dami—”_

“I did not _need_ his assistance.”

_“It’s okay…”_

_“Jay, don’t—”_

“Like hell it is!”

“Tt.”

“Language, Jason,” Bruce admonishes, at the same time as Alfred. He’s on speaker now, and can hear Jason clearly even as he mutters his apology.

It’s followed by a moment of silence, and Bruce sighs – carefully _away_ from the phone.

“So…how’s the weather, Bruce?” Dick finally asks, and Bruce can imagine his eldest – already fourteen, almost fifteen – in the middle of his brothers all huddled together, a hand somehow on each of them.

Bruce smiles knowingly, certain Dick had given them all dirty looks, condemning them to silent repentance for having argued. “It’s fine,” he replies.

“That’s nice,” Dick says cheerfully, and Bruce can only imagine Jason or Tim – or both – rolling their eyes at him.

But Damian’s attention is all for the phone, and he almost-snaps again even as Dick’s finished speaking, “Father.”

There’s more of a pause this time, and Bruce imagines Damian’s shoulders only a _little_ hunched – never as much as Tim’s would be – as he regards the phone in his small hands; a bit self-conscious with all his brothers’ eyes on him, and in light of Jason’s chiding after he’d first raised the question. But the boy ploughs through regardless, “ _When_ will you be home…?”

Jason wasn’t wrong. He had only _just_ arrived – hence the call.

The next week will be spent drifting from one meeting to the next, but, much as he dislikes the idea – and dislikes being so far away from his sons, from his _family_ – and has no enthusiasm for the experience, it _needs_ to be done. There’s really no way around it.

He’d explained all this to each of them – separately and together, and once more for emphasis and in case – but apparently Damian needs to hear it again.

He’d never been away from his youngest this long, before. Part of him hadn’t wanted to think too hard on it, since there was hardly a thing he could do about it.

“…Father…?” Damian’s voice is a whisper, and Bruce realizes he’s let the silence drag on too long.

The other boys aren’t saying anything either. Waiting for him. Maybe they all need to hear it again.

Maybe they need to hear…something else.

“I’m already there. Damian.”

“ _What?_ ” it’s a confused little gasp, and Bruce can see Damian’s big brown eyes turn bigger and browner.

“Well, _metaphorically_ ,” he amends. Someone snorts in the background, and it’s a bit of a toss between Alfred and Jason, if it isn’t the both of them.

“I…do not understand,” Damian mumbles, voice small, and uncertain, and it’s Dick making a quiet _cooing_ sort of noise that makes Bruce think Damian is blushing.

It’s all but confirmed when Damian hisses almost inaudibly, “ _Shut up, Grayson_.”

“Come on, Bruce,” Jason says, a laugh in his tone. “Explain this one, cause I can’t wait to hear it.”

Tim hums in agreement.

“Please, Father,” Damian adds quietly, and Dick, who’d been giggling in the background after Damian’s rebuke, is silent and listening now as well.

“Well…let’s see,” Bruce muses. “I might be far away, Damian, but…I’m… _in_ so many things around you.

“I’m in Dick’s every hug,”

A startled yelp and a little laugh comes through over the line, and Bruce has no doubt Dick’s grabbed Damian from behind. There’s no protest from the younger boy he can hear and Bruce chooses to believe it’s because there isn’t any at all.

“I’m in Jason’s strong hand on your shoulder,” Bruce continues, and there’s no indication Jason’s moved, but Bruce hopes he has.

“I’m in Tim’s adorable little scowl when you’re being impossible.”

There are twin murmurs of _“I’m never impossible”_ and _“My scowl’s not adorable”_ (followed by _“Bruce is exaggerating, Little D”_ and _“Yes, it is, baby-bird”_ ), and Bruce doesn’t realize he’s _grinning_ at the floral wallpaper of his hotel room.

“I’m in Alfred’s patience,” Bruce adds when the boys are quiet again. Alfred’s agreeable hum is clear in the background.

Bruce’s smile turns soft.

“And…I’m in your _heart_ , Damian.

“Aren’t I?”

“ _Yes_ , Father,” the boy says at once, his tone slightly appalled that there could ever be any doubt. “ _Always_ , Father.”

“As you are in mine,” Bruce says. “Each of you.”

“Yes, Father…” Damian repeats, quietly.

“You’re in our hearts, too, Bruce,” Dick adds.

“Right next to the chilli dogs,” Jason’s grinning, Bruce can tell.

“Indeed, Master Bruce.”

“Yeah, mine too,” Tim’s addition is quiet but firm, and Bruce imagines the five of them – Alfred included, of course – clustered together in the hall, Damian holding the phone and Dick and Jason with broad smiles on their faces, the others’ a little more subdued.

Bruce smiles as well, and lets the moment and the silence drag on.

“Father?” Damian breaks the spell, but the image still lingers a little behind Bruce’s eyes.

“Yes, Damian?”

“ _Metaphorically_ ,” he says. “We’re…we’re all there, too.”

“I know, son. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nov 2014.


	44. Pin it Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally _just now_ gave this a title. :/
> 
> Jason has a favour to ask of Alfred.  
> (this is all just dialogue, because I generally come up with that first and then add all the inbetween bits, but it worked well without all those bits, so I left it as-is. I might yet doodle this)

“ _Look_ at it! Couple centimetres it’ll be all the way down to my nose… And it gets in my e _ars_ , and it’s hot and sweaty, and it _curls_ – look at this – I don’t know where that comes from. Are hair types hereditary?”

“…Don’t…know…”

“Well, you suck.”

“Uhh-huh…”

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

“Hm-hmm, Jason, sure…”

“Tt.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, _that_ he hears.”

“How’ve you been keeping your hair out of your face under that hood of yours, anyway?”

“Uhhh…just…comb it back, it’s perfectly tameable.”

“……”

“What? What’re you smirking at, _Replacement_?”

“You know that sounds more _endearing_ nowadays than anything else. Like a nickname. Like, ‘ _Little Wing_ ’; same thing.”

“Shut up.”

“Just admit it, you like me.”

“I do _not_. You’re an ass.”

“And also – you pin it back, don’t you? Your hair.”

“Wha-at—? I _do not_.”

“No?”

“ _No_.”

“Not with hair pins and everything?”

“No.”

“Stephanie’s hair pins?”

“… _No_.”

“No? Well, then, I guess you won’t be needing these—”

“ _You_ little shit – _you_ had these? Give me that!”

“Hahaa-heh—haaa…”

“Do you have _any_ idea how uncomfortable last night’s patrol was?”

“Ha—cause your hair was in your face, or because you were scared of Steph kicking your ass cause you lost her pins?”

“ _Both_. …Butmostlythelatter…”

“Heh, yeah.”

“Stop laughing, you ass. I hate you.”

“Of course.”

“ _Of course_ of course.”

“…”

“Snacks, sirs?”

“Thanks, Alfred—”

“ _Al_! Always pop up like you’re heaven-sent.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“‘Indeed, sir’, yes—I kinda wanna ask you something?”

“Hm. I’m all ears, Master Jason.”

“Well, I was…wondering, I mean, if you’re not too busy with your – butler-schedule, butlering, as you do – if, maybe…um… you’dcutmyhair, maybe?”

“Ha-ha—hmph—”

“ _Shut up,_ Replacement—”

“Ha—Jay, why don’t you just go to a professional? Uh, no offense, Alfred, but, it’s not like we can’t afford it, and…it’s not really _your_ job to see to our _hair_. You already do so much.”

“No offense taken, sir.”

“I’m still legally _dead_ , Pretender. I can’t just walk into a decent barber shop and expect not to be recognized. ’Sides, Al – you know how I like it? And you always used to do it, before—which, I realise, was… _before_ , but, it’s not like – I dunno, you’d forget, elephant brain, or I’d forget, but I guess, if you don’t want to, I can always – got to be some place in the Narrows, or like, a whole other city—”

“That will not be necessary, sir. I do not mind, in the least.”

“ _Really_ , Alfie? You’ll cut my hair?”

“Like old times, sir.”

“Ah—Alfred, you’re the best!”

“Oh! Ah – uh, indeed, sir. Ahem. When would you like to have your appointment?”

“Uh, any time – just sit me down and there we go. But, not _right now_ , I gotta – I need to go, do a thing.”

“Ah. Very well, sir.”

“Yeah, right. So, later—”

“‘A thing’, Jason? You were complaining of being _bored_ and having nothing to do not ten minutes ago, besides keeping me out of my work—”

“And I have, since then, remembered, about a thing, that needs doing, by me. You should be grateful – you can get on with your— _whatever_ the heck it was.”

“Hmp.”

“Later, Timmy. Al.”

“Sir.”

“…

“…Alfred?”

“Yes, Master Tim?”

“Did he really… _hug_ you, and _kissed you_ on the forehead, just now?”

“I am quite certain I have no idea _what_ you are referring to, Master Tim. Are you quite well? Goodness, I was _certain_ the meat on these sandwiches were fresh…”

“Ha _ha_ , Alfred. Very funny.”

“I _do try_ , sir.”

“Heh. But, seriously, Alfred – that was really… _weird_ , even for Jason.”

“Hmm…felt rather… _familiar_ , to me, sir.”

“…How so?”

“Well, Master Jason was a much more affectionate child than most of us care to remember, and not above the _occasional_ hug to whomever deserved it.”

“Heh, was that mostly you?”

“I… _may_ have gotten more than my fair share.”

“Haha! Always knew Jason had a soft spot for you.”

“Yes, well…”

“…What about the…’thing’ he’s ‘got to go do’? I know there’s not a thing, Alfred. He just— _ran off_. Almost literally.”

“Well…and I am sharing this with you, Master Timothy, because I _know_ Master Jason will not, and, to better help you _understand_ him. Heaven knows, not enough of us do.”

“Fair enough.”

“Master Jason is…fairly easily embarrassed, sir. Though it has gotten better over time, public displays of affection still make him uncomfortable – more so when he’s directly part of it. I believe he _slipped_ , just now. And, with you and he not _quite_ as close as you might be and I not having had a hug since the ominous ‘ _before_ ’…I’m not surprised some _distance_ from the incident is desirable.”

“…Wow… Red Hood gets embarrassed? I never would’ve thought. Though, he _did_ blush bright red when I whipped out Steph’s hair pins, so there’s that.”

“Hm.

“…You _are_ aware, Master Tim, that Jason is no more the Red Hood than _you_ _are_ Red Robin, or Master Dick _is_ Nightwing, or Miss Stephanie _is_ Batgirl.”

“Yeah, I know. Just a funny thought.”

“Indeed, sir. If you’ll excuse me, these aren’t going to wash themselves.”

“Right.

“…Hey, Alfred?”

“Sir?”

“How _bad_ of a little brother would I be, if I teased him just _a little_ bit, about his…rosy cheeks?”

“Simply _deplorable_ , sir.”

“Yeah…that’s what I thought.”

“Though, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir – is that not a little brother’s prerogative?”

“…It is?”

“You didn’t hear it from _me_ , sir.”

“ _Of course_ not, Alfred.

“Very good, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nov 2014.


	45. The Boy on the Windowsill smokes his Mother's cigarettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not done, but I've half-forgotten what was meant to be the rest of it, and I'm also in no mood/state of mind to finish it.
> 
> Dick visits the manor shortly after Jason becomes Robin, finding his newly acquired younger brother on a windowsill, engaged in unhealthy activities (warning for _smoking_ ).

Dick finds the younger boy in one of the farthest abandoned rooms, in the back of the manor that Dick doesn’t think he’s been in since _his_ first exploration of the old house years ago.

It must have been a parlour, since Dick knows the door on the other side of the room leads to equally abandoned sleeping quarters. The couches, armchairs and tables in the centre of the room, and the bookcases lining one wall are all covered in ever-pristine white sheets. The wooden floorboards beneath Dick’s feet are all shiny, too, and he takes a second to wonder when the heck Alfred – because who else would it be besides the elderly butler – had the time to clean this unused room, and why he would still bother.

The subject of Dick’s perusal into this apparently not _too_ forgotten part of the manor is perched on a wide, bench-like really, windowsill, with his legs up to his chest and his back to the room in a way that doesn’t allow Dick to see his face.

The windows are wide open, though, and what Dick _can_ see, is a puff of smoke blowing through the air and disappearing on the passing breeze, followed by a slow, thin trail of greyness in its wake when Jason lets the rest of the cigarette dangle and burn from between his small fingers. Not _too small_ for _this_ particular bad habit, the current Boy Wonder believes; apparently.

Dick resists the urge to give into his exasperation with a long-suffering sigh, and so reveal his presence, and instead slips as quietly – which is pretty quiet – as he can through the relative crack Jason’s left in the door. He makes his way on feather-light footsteps – the old floorboards well-waxed and kept creak-less in whatever way Alfred has of accomplishing that – across the room to the window, all the while wondering what the best way of catching the younger boy’s attention would be.

He doesn’t want Jason to fall out of the window of course, but a decent scare might be in order.

The kid shifts his weight into a more comfortable position, abruptly, and Dick freezes less he give himself away in Jason’s peripheral, but the boy doesn’t move enough for that.

A wicked little grin tugs at the corner of Dick’s mouth. He’s confident his reflexes are quick enough that, if Jason does fall headfirst into a three-storey drop, Dick can probably catch him by the collar of his jacket and pull him back inside before he gets too far. Jason will probably insist on taking a few jabs at him in places it could hurt, but they’ll have a good laugh over it eventually.

The kid could probably use a laugh, Dick thinks, since he doesn’t believe he’s seen Jason so much as crack a good smile at him since he’s started living here.

In fact, he’s looked downright miserable – always off on his own doing _Batman_ knows what – at least, Dick _hopes_ Batman knows what – and smoking. _Lots_ of smoking.

Jason apparently even has his own lighter – a slim silver thing he’s holding in the hand he’s got resting on his other arm, stretched out on one knee with the cigarette still smoking where he’s taken to twirling it in circles.

Dick’s just gotten close enough to really put his plan into action, having a quick internal debate over whether to grab at the boy, scream in his ear, or flop down onto the sill next to him with a boisterous, unexpected greeting. He’s about to act on the last one, when Jason’s interruption makes him jump—

“Don’t even think about it, Goldie…” he drawls, before the cigarette disappears from Dick’s view and he can hear Jason take a deep inhale, shoulders rising and falling with the motion, before another cloud of smoke escapes from the boy’s mouth and nostrils.

Dick gives into the sigh he’d been holding in, and saunters the rest of the way to the windowsill, plopping down dejectedly. “How’d you know I was there?” Dick had been contemplating simply ignoring Jason whenever he took to calling him “Goldie,” not liking whatever meaning Jason was implying, in an effort to dissuade the boy from using it, but, since it was just about the only address he got nowadays, Dick was letting him get away with it because otherwise Jason might not speak to him at all.

Jason half-shrugs and holds up the lighter – shiny and relatively new-looking, and, though the images are relatively distorted, Dick can still make out the reflected furniture in the room and the door through which he’d entered.

“Smart,” he comments with a grin, making to take the lighter with the guise of trying out the effect for himself, but Jason probably figures Dick wouldn’t just give it back – which he wouldn’t, because really, the kid _needs_ to quit smoking – and curls his fingers tight around it, slipping his hand in under his arm and out of Dick’s immediate reach.

Dick sighs again without meaning to, and props himself up leaning back on his hands, legs crossing on the windowsill. “So what are you doing in here, Little Wing?”

Jason grunts, probably at the nickname, before tapping at his cigarette and dropping ash to the ground. “Isn’t it obvious.”

Dick frowns, just a little, shifts his weight back to his hands some more, leaning comfortably, before he says, dryly, “Slowly committing suicide?”

“Don’t joke about that,” Jason says, half under his breath and just short of a growl, and he’s not looking at Dick, who blinks, more than a little surprised.

“Jay…?” he ventures, carefully, and Jason shifts his shoulders and rolls his eyes with an exasperated exhale.

“I’m not suicidal,” he drawls, and takes another quick drag of the cigarette, speaks even as the smoke escapes through his lips, “’m just saying, that’s not funny…”

“Sorry…” Dick mumbles, frowning at the kid who’s still not looking at him, and sinking a little into his shoulders, not expecting to feel like he’s just been scolded by someone far older and wiser. He’d rather been expecting another cheeky come-back from the kid, not a serious reprimand.

“ _You_ got a better chance of killing me, scaring me right off this windowsill like you meant to do,” Jason says, leaning forward a little and craning his neck to see the ground over his knees.

Dick glances to the side himself and shrugs, grateful for the kid’s lighter tone, “I’d have caught you,” he says, with just a little bit of smug certainty in his tone to keep the banter going.

Jason snorts, “Ooof _course_ you would,” he says derisively, and Dick’s shoulders slump. What did he do _now_?

“Okay,” Dick says, ignoring Jason’s attitude, and attempting to get back the lighter mood instead, “Sooo…is this…social segregation, then, or something?”

“Good _grief_ , Dick,” Jason says, with feeling, waving his cigarette through the air and throwing his head back to look at the sky as if he’s asking for wisdom rather than strength. Dick scowls a little. “I’m _just_ having a smoke,” Jason says, pointedly holding up the half-finished cigarette, but not turning his head to look at Dick. “Can’t exactly do that at the kitchen table, can I?”

Dick rolls his eyes this time, “That’s not what I mean, Little Wing, and you know it—”

“ _No_ , I really don’t,” Jason throws in with a groan, and tucks his knees in tighter against his chest, puts the cigarette to his lips and rests his chin on his palm.

“I _mean_ ,” Dick starts, imploringly, “That, _obviously_ you’re smoking,” he waves one hand dismissively, “But it’s more than that—” Jason snorts. “You’re _always_ off on your own somewhere. Whenever I visit you vanish, and at first I thought…maybe you were avoiding me, for whatever reason, but when I asked – Alfred and Bruce say you’re almost always off…doing _whatever_ , by yourself. Or reading by yourself, or…” Dick shrugged. “Unless you’re training in the cave. I’m just…” Dick’s gaze had slipped from the smoking boy to the smooth, pristine white space between them. “I don’t know, worried about you, I guess? I know Bruce isn’t _the_ most talkative character in the world, but…when I was living here we did things outside of costume. I expected you’d be...” Dick trails off and glances at Jason, but the kid’s still not looking at him. “Drinking tea with Alfie, maybe, or, just making small talk with Bruce. Hanging out, or something—”

“Just like _you_ when _you_ were a kid,” Jason cuts in, scathingly. He’s turned his head to the side so Dick can’t make out all of his face, but his lips are thin and drawn into a frown at the corner. His cigarette is dropping ash onto his shoulder.

“Well, no,” Dick says at once, and then amends, “But... _yes_? A little—”

“Well, _tough luck_ , Goldie, we can’t all be like _you_ ,” Jason snaps, turning his head back towards Dick only a little. “Just because you’re a frickin’ social _butterfly_ and everybody _loves_ your damn ass, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be that way, too.”

Dick’s staring, sitting a little straighter without having noticed. He blinks. “Jason, that’s not what I meant – I’m not _comparing_ you to me—”

“No?” Jason interrupts, his tone ironic. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He’s staring out the window, eyes narrowed into a scowl and his arms folded tight atop his knees.

“I’m serious, Jason,” Dick says, not entirely certain what kind of turn this conversation has just taken, but determined at least to have Jason know exactly where he stands with him. Dick’s well aware that Jason is nothing like him, and he doesn’t want the boy to start thinking that he needs to be. The kid’s _family_ now, and family doesn’t consist of a bunch of clones. They are each their own person and Jason doesn’t deserve to be made to think otherwise. Dick endeavours to say as much, “You’re _not_ me, I know that,” Dick watches his face, contemplates putting a hand on Jason’s shoulder, but he’s not certain what reaction that might inspire.

As it is, Jason tucks his chin behind his arms at Dick’s words, hiding half his face.

“And you don’t need to be, Little Wing,” Dick continues, gently, trying to get the message across, but he can see Jason’s grip on the lighter tightening where he’s still holding onto it under his arm. “You’re _family_. Bruce’s son,” Dick says with a lot less difficulty than he thought he might, because he’s yet to explore the deepest crevices of that particular trail of feeling – Bruce a _dopting_ an orphaned boy right off the street within a couple months of meeting him, while Dick’s still tagged only as his _ward_. Dick’s not sure if he’s jealous, or if he doesn’t care, or of what he’s supposed to feel at all, especially with Bruce just _giving_ Jason _his_ name, and then all of Bruce’s reasons for that just…sparking a burst of new feelings and igniting all the old ones and Dick’s not sure what to make of that either. But whatever his issues with _Bruce_ , there’s no reason for Jason to get dragged into the middle of it, and no need for the boy to feel like he is.

This is his _home_ now. Dick wouldn’t be able to live with himself if _he’s_ somehow responsible for making Jason feel like a stranger, or if Dick could’ve done something to prevent that and didn’t.

“You’re like…you’re my little brother, aren’t you?” he says thus, reaching for Jason’s shoulder after all.

But Jason snaps a very defiant “We’re _not_ anything!” in Dick’s direction as he seems to shrink into himself a little more, limbs tightening as he adds in a muffled voice from behind his arm something Dick sorely wishes he’d heard wrong – only, he knows he hadn’t and it leaves his hand hovering frozen above the boy’s shoulder; “I’m just your replacement.”

Dick’s fingers curl into a tight fist, “That’s not true,” he says, slow and deliberate, and then he _does_ drop his hand on Jason’s shoulder and clutches it firmly, intent on reassuring the boy that he doesn’t see Jason as his “replacement” at all – for all that Bruce had slapped his old suit on the boy without seemingly thinking twice, though of course he _had_ if Jason’s training is anything to go by, the kid had _earned_ the Robin name several times over already, and he was only improving. He was a little hero in his own right, in Dick’s opinion.

He means to tell Jason as much, and then maybe snap at Bruce a little for letting the kid think otherwise before he leaves later, “Listen to me, Little Wing—” Dick implores,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a casual fic-reader, and you've seen those "writer-struggles" posts, and one of the points is something like "stopping in a middle of a sentence and suddenly being unable to continue (for three+ years)" and you thought that was a joke? I'm here to tell you: It Isn't.
> 
> What I do remember of the rest of this, and going off the title, is that their conversation was meant to somehow end up at their parents, mothers in particular. Dick was probably going to reminisce about his own, and Jason would eventually confess he smokes his mother's (Catherine's) brand of cigarettes because it smells like her, and he misses her. Now, I don't think Catherine ever smokes in canon? But there's that thing about smoking staving off hunger or some such? So, that's where this came from.


	46. I'm Listening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one-shot fic I'd started but never finished.  
> I used some more Tim & Jason dialogue for the "prologue."

**_Prologue_ **

“I’m taking you to the cave.”

“No, not the cave. I’d rather just die _here_.”

“I’m not letting you die. But, if not the cave, then where?”

“Just…well, where do you live? Because I know it’s not the manor.”

“…”

“What? You don’t like me knowing where you set up camp?”

“It’s pretty permanent. So no. Why don’t I just take you to _your_ place _?”_

“No.”

“Oh, come on – I have to take you somewhere! I bet you have ‘digs’ all over this neighbourhood, and a few over. You’ll probably move before I can tell the Bat where you are, anyway. Not that I _would_ , but if that’s what you’re worried about—”

“That’s…not it.”

“Then what?”

“Just take me to your place, alright?”

“Not unless you tell me why I can’t take you to yours. If Bats isn’t the problem—”

“And here I thought you weren’t gonna let me die here.”

“I won’t if you just tell me what I want to know.”

“I’m not doing that. So I guess I’m on my own.”

“You can barely move. Or stand—sit back down!”

“Argh—”

“My place is not exactly _close_. Or equipped half as well as the cave. But at the rate you’re going I guess any equipment is better than nothing? I don’t doubt your place has at least _that_ much. But _mostly_ , I _honestly_ don’t trust you. So I need a _really_ good reason to let you through my door—”

“ _Because_! Because I… I don’t strictly… _have_ a place…”

“You – what? You…don’t have anywhere to stay? You don’t stay anywhere? So, what? You live…on the street…?”

“Talk about it _later_ , Timmy, I’m bleeding to my death here. Come on.”

“…Fine. But we’re discussing this.”

* * *

“Come on. Don’t fall asleep.”

“It wouldn’t be sleep so much as a fucking coma…”

“Stay out of it either way – I don’t want to have to take you to a hospital.”

“No hospitals, kid—”

“What did I _just_ say? I _know_.”

“Just…reiterating.”

“The obvious.”

“I’m half dead here, kid – cut me some slack…I’m not all there.”

“I scoff at that first, but I can’t really argue with the second…”

* * *

**_Chapter_ **

Dick would be lying if he said watching Bruce speed the Batmobile almost impossibly fast into the Cave and parking it with a halt of _screeching_ , smoking tyres in its designated spot, hadn’t half-scared the life out of him in a way he hadn't been since he was Robin.

“What happened?” Dick had demanded, already halfway out of his seat in front of the computer, but of course Bats didn’t reply at once. They had a show-and-tell relationship after all – Dick would tell him things (such as, ‘you’re an idiot’) and Bruce would reply with some display or another (such as, ‘yes, I am’ in the procedure of doing something idiotic). True to form, thus, Bruce had jumped from the vehicle without a word and had swiftly rounded the large black machine just as stoically to the passenger side, its automatic door already opening for him.

Dick had, at this point, already left the console, crossing the Cave to the car at a run, thinking the worst – Red Robin had been out there as well, after all. Only, a motorcycle had grumbled in the distance suddenly, down the same cavern the Batmobile had come from, and Dick had paused, uncertain. At the same time his younger brother roared into the Cave, black cape flaring in his wake, Batman emerged from the other side of the Batmobile, carrying someone Dick had not been expecting in the least – Jason.

His signature red hood was missing, though an equally crimson mask covered his eyes, which were, despite the white eye-lenses giving no outward sign, decidedly closed – he wouldn’t be _letting_ Bruce carry him if they were open and he were conscious, for one thing, and he was completely limp, and _bleeding_ , for another. With the leather jacket he almost always wore absent – and the holsters usually round his thighs, Dick had noticed, as well – the dark grey armour covering his torso was revealed to be badly broken, and what Dick could make out of the field-gauze layered against his right side was soaked through with blood, not an inch of white left.

“ _What. Happened?_ ” Dick had repeated, belatedly realising he’d snapped at Batman using Nightwing’s voice. He couldn’t regret it though, since it was likely the only reason he’d finally received a semblance of an answer.

“I don’t know,” Batman’s reply had been curt, and gruff, and he’d shoved past Dick, who’d been halfway up the ramp towards him, and carried on in a silent march towards Alfred – the old butler having wheeled in a gurney from the medical area in a way that suggested he’d been radioed beforehand and Dick had felt more out of the loop than before.

Batman had visibly hesitated, tightening his hold on Jason _almost_ imperceptibly before relinquishing and allowing him to be carted off back to the Med Bay, though Batman followed hastily – a towering statue of foreboding darkness, quivering with a desperate kind of worry and a menacing sort of rage that only came from the deepest crevices of Bruce’s being and only surfaced in full-force when one of his sons’ – or daughter’s – lives were on the line. It spoke of justifiable vengeance against whoever was responsible for his children’s latest bout of pain – a pain Dick knew Bruce always shared in, if not physically.

Dick had stood halfway up the ramp to the Batmobile’s parking space, watching his adoptive father take determined strides in the wake of his bleeding younger brother, and Dick’s heart had ached and twisted and felt confused – he’d been upstairs with Damian, the boy nursing an awful cold, petulant and despondent about being grounded for it, and Dick had been trying his best to make him feel better. He’d only come down to the cave because Dami had finally nodded off to sleep.

Seeing Alfred’s haste in bringing the gurney around and Batman’s possessive hold, Dick had felt torn and guilty at not having been there to receive the call Alfred must have taken by himself, leaving him uninformed and unable to lend a hand.

Stricken, he’d all but forgotten about Tim until the boy had poked him in the arm, and, startled, Dick had spun around. “What happened?” he’d repeated for the third time in as many minutes, without thinking, before he felt the same wave of dread that had accosted his insides at the first sight of the Batmobile. “Are _you_ okay?” he’d demanded to know before Tim had done more than open his mouth to reply to the first question, grabbing the teen by his shoulders. “You’re not hurt at all?” Tim hadn’t _looked_ hurt, at least, but they were each of them adept at hiding injuries, stubborn idiots (himself, regrettably, included).

“I’m fine,” Tim had said, and cut in before Dick could ask again. “It’s just—” he’d glanced beyond Dick’s shoulder at the hallway extending from the main area of the cave, leading off to the Med Bay. “It’s only Jason.”

Dick had wanted to repeat himself one more time, but he could tell that he didn’t need to. With a sigh Tim had tugged off his mask, briefly rubbing at his temple in a way that had made Dick think he must’ve had a headache, before he started, “I found him. In an alley. He was roughed-up pretty bad, his armour cut through, with a knife, it looked like. But, considering, it must’ve been one heck of a blade,” Dick had dropped his hands from Tim’s shoulders, and, looking tired, the younger boy had rounded his older brother and wandered off to the computer console. Dick had followed solemnly in his wake, sparing the hallway a passing glance.

“He’d already lost a lot of blood, and…it was a mess,” Tim had continued, setting down his mask and looking like he wanted nothing more than to drop down onto the chair and go to sleep right there. “But he was conscious,” Tim had added, quickly, turning round to Dick, as if he’d realised how bad his explanation had started sounding. “When I found him. And he was bantering and being an ass and everything,” Dick couldn’t have helped but smile slightly at that. “I half-dragged him along, because he _insisted_ I just take him to my place for a proper patching-up, but I could tell he was going to need more than that, and really I was just buying time,” by which Dick had figured Tim meant he’d activated his emergency tracker at once when he’d come across Jason, and Batman had been on his way the moment he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise the tense and POV is probably a little odd? Dick goes into a sort of flashback there, and it was going to loop around into the present, where he'd be sitting next to Jason's bed, talking to him.


	47. Loitering ch5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 23 December 2014.
> 
> This is where the PTSD really comes in, I guess.

_the need to know_

* * *

“I think I’ll be a clown when I get grown,” said Dill.

Jem and I stopped in our tracks.

“Yes sir, a clown,” he said. “There ain’t one thing in this world I can do about folks except laugh, so I’m gonna join the circus and laugh my head off.”

“You got it backwards, Dill,” said Jem. “Clowns are sad, it’s folks that laugh at them.”

“Well I’m gonna be a new kind of clown. I’m gonna stand in the middle of the ring and laugh at the folks.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

 

Alfred checked in just as Dick had finally gotten Tim settled down.

Following finding the boy relieving his stomach of his most recent meal in the toilet bowl ten minutes before, Tim had mumbled apologies and pleaded to be forgiven for things Dick couldn’t make out and finally didn’t care to. Tim had been a stuttering, trembling _mess_ , and it hadn’t been the first time either.

Over the course of the past several weeks he’d – _finally_ – been home, Tim’s manner had alternated between never speaking, to _shouting_ everything at the top of his lungs, to mumbling, to stuttering, to signing, to scribbling everything down – on papers, and walls, and his own hands if not someone else’s unexpectedly – each bout of speech or not-speech always turning into an uncontrollable fit of _giggles_.

Shoulders shaking, fingers twitching, eyes wide _giggles_ that spew forth in bursts of eerie elation from the pit of his belly, like he _meant it_.

Dick would have been glad seeing his brother crack a smile, _laugh_ as if he were happy, but that wasn’t what it was – it was a warped, ill-placed _grin_ and a _creepy_ cackle that had nothing to do with happiness at all.

Returning to the manor, Tim had been quiet the first few days, and Dick, Cass, Bruce and Alfred hadn’t pushed him into explaining anything. They’d run tests, they’d cleaned Tim up – from the lavish purple suit and green tie to the hair dye and the make-up, until finally Dick could see his little brother underneath it all again.

Tim had allowed it, and had gone silently through the tests and the check-ups – never a word and never an expression. Until, a few days in, when, tucking Tim in for the night, Dick had run his mouth a little, mentioning Jason and his inexplicable disappearance about a month after Tim’s and how they still hadn’t been able to find him, either.

It started as a slow twitch at the corner of Tim’s mouth, cutting Dick off mid-sentence, wondering what was wrong, and then Tim’s expression blossomed into a – happy, Dick had thought at first – _grin_ – but he soon realized it didn’t meet the boy’s eyes. Then Tim had giggled, and looked at Dick, and looked, and _looked_ , and _giggled_ as if Jason, missing, was the funniest thing Tim had ever heard.

Dick must have been staring – gaping – for five whole minutes before he grabbed Tim by the shoulders to plead, “ _Stop_ , Timmy—”

It had sounded too much like…well, it sounded _wrong_ , and not like Tim _at all_.

Tim had cut off abruptly, tears jumping to his eyes all at once, and then his giggles had started up again after the momentary pause, littered with sobs and yelps and screams, and _crying_ and _crying_ —

Dick had sat holding him all night, and it was hours before he’d quieted down, and hours more before he finally fell asleep – only, not before he spoke for the first time in _days_ (if not _weeks_ ; who really knew), “I killed him.”

Voice so hoarse and broken, Dick still wasn’t sure he’d heard him right, but…he didn’t know what else it could have been. Dick wasn’t sure how long Tim had slept, but, when he woke with an almighty start just as his parents’ bodies hit the hard circus ring with a loud _thump_ he could _hear_ even in his dream, Tim was awake – and staring at him.

He started talking after that. Quietly at first. So much so Dick sometimes wasn’t sure Tim was talking to him until the boy was tugging at his sleeve and repeating himself impatiently. It escalated from there. Ended in giggles, and morphed into sobs so gut-wrenching and stomach-turning just to _listen to_ , if Dick didn’t know any better he would have sworn Tim was being _tortured_ right in front of his eyes.

Or, as they discovered at last, just reliving the last couple months in The Joker’s hands.

Tim’s tests had come back, listing chemicals and substances in his system half of which Dick wasn’t sure was _safe_ to mix together, and the other half he wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard of before. The only thing that seemed remotely familiar, was a different mix of Joker Venom – non-lethal, it _seemed_ , but potent nonetheless.

The very first time Tim had been taken in by the giggles and the crying was still at Joker’s lab, right after the clown had stopped laughing himself – was _dead_ – and, realizing it was most likely triggered by the Venom, Batman had administered the usual antidote. However, there was no point in continuing _that_ line of treatment – Joker’s new mix of chemicals seemed to be half- _made_ of Batman’s antidote and it could only do more harm than good now.

Whatever Joker did hadn’t been like shooting up a drug, either, but rather planting an _infection_. Tim was _sick_. And Joker’s virus was evolving and growing and seemed to be eating Tim up from the inside, and they _needed_ something to fight it with, to destroy it with.

To, apparently successfully, be able to create such a thing – who knew The Joker had been such a…genius?

Sharing this information with Tim – discreetly, of course, the cliff notes of what was _necessary_ , since they needed more blood and tests and figuring out a new antidote, and Tim had turned prickly and wary unless he knew more or less exactly what they were doing – the boy had slipped off into staring at nothing as he so often did, and finally just started talking right over Dick, answering questions they hadn’t had the heart to start asking yet.

Dick had stopped in his ministrations, and Alfred, several feet away had paused to listen as well, both of them gone sickly pale the longer Tim spoke – until Dick at last couldn’t take any more.

He’d wrapped his arms around Tim and pressed the boy’s cheek against his shoulder, begging him to stop talking, but he only continued, voice muffled against Dick’s shirt, until Alfred discreetly slipped him a safe sedative and Tim eventually nodded off. Dick had never been more grateful. Or more disturbed.

They had since only recently come up with potential medication that could delay the development of the disease, but Tim was due for another testing. Bruce was confident, though. In a bout of coherence one afternoon, Tim had found Bruce down in the cave, tired and irritable but determined in his work, and had made several suggestions that Bruce later told Dick had still been as smart as ever, nudging him in the direction he’d been looking for but couldn’t find.

Tim would be alright, Bruce had kept repeating – at regular intervals and whenever he caught sight of Dick, to the point Dick didn’t know if he was the one being reassured anymore, or if Bruce was talking to himself. He at last stopped after Tim finally heard his reassurances as well, and the boy’s mumbling became shouting, and manic laughing, as he accused Bruce of _hating_ him, and wishing that he _wouldn’t_ be alright, because how _could_ he after what Tim had _done_ and Tim knew Bruce really only wanted him gone, or _dead_ , and he should just leave and Bruce would be better off without him—

It had taken them several hours to calm the boy down and convince him none of it was true, but Tim wouldn’t listen until after he’d slept, too cried out to do anything else. He’d nodded, forlornly, and promised Dick he believed him that Bruce loved him and would never abandon him or want him gone. But then Tim had gone back to staring and grinning at nothing for hours on end and Dick wasn’t certain he believed Tim had meant any of it.

He hadn’t followed through on his challenge to leave yet, though, and Dick was taking it as a win.

Tim had mild to severe breakdowns like that at irregular intervals, and the strangest or most mundane things could set him off sometimes. Jason’s name especially had triggered an episode of particularly destructive magnitude, and they’d elected to stop discussing Jason’s state of absence after Tim burst out laughing and started throwing medical supplies around when Dick voiced his concern for their still-missing brother one evening after patrol. He was undeterred in his laughter even as Dick tried to grab at and calm him down somehow.

Tim had ended with the hair-raisingly _joyful_ – _satisfied_ – exclamation of “ _He killed him!_ ” Dick was prepared to swear to it having been “he” not “I,” no matter how many skeptic and concerned looks Bruce gave him on the topic.

It may have been the disbelief and concern on Dick’s face that had Tim stop and quiet _abruptly_ at the end of that sentence, before the kid _slapped_ both hands over his mouth, blue eyes wide and tear-filled as he took to muttering, “I didn’t mean that, that was awful, that’s not funny; why would I laugh? That’s not—Jason, sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Dick had scooped him up and held him all night.

Because Tim was still as sneaky as ever, they found him a couple nights in a row, eavesdropping on their conversations in the cave or outside Bruce’s bedroom door, but he seemed to have somehow forced himself out of having another reaction to Jason’s name after the last time. Dick didn’t mention him unless it was absolutely necessary though, just to be safe.

Tim’s grin, and the _laughter_ , had been too much to take, especially without the accompanying Joker-esque ensemble of purple suit and make-up, leaving no delusions of it being _Tim_ laughing like a – like _that –_ maniac. Dick didn’t want to witness an episode of that degree a second time.

The smaller ones, he’d learned, could stay small or be cut off completely if he calmed Tim down in time and stopped him from giggling too much soon enough. Tim gave him opportunity enough to practice several times a day, and Cassandra, able to read Tim’s actions before the kid himself even had a clue, would call Dick, or warn him, or wrap Tim up in her arms and hum to him herself if no one else was close enough. He seemed to like that more often than not and Dick, with patrolling, and helping Bruce with antidotes and research and cases, often handed Timmy over to Cass for cuddles and reducing fits.

Hysterical, episodic giggling they were almost getting the hang of so far aside, the thing that just plain _upset_ Tim the most was eating.

Since Joker had apparently been _starving_ him for the most part, continually silent-Tim hadn’t _wanted_ to eat anything the first few days of his return, and he’d stubbornly refused. Dick made sure he practically drank his weight in water, though, and had _eventually_ , at last, coaxed him into eating small things at regular intervals.

It was a work in progress though; Tim’s body reacting differently to things he’d previously had no problem with, and whenever one thing or another had him rushing to the bathroom, it was not unusual for him to revert back to silence, or the muttering-stuttering Tim of the first few days – and the eventual giggles if Dick didn’t get to him in time. Once he’d calmed down, Tim was angry at himself mostly, for wasting food and being a nuisance, and his uncontrollable and inappropriate fits, and he’d scowl no matter how Dick tried to placate and reassure him.

Dick could see the look intensify on Tim’s face now, from the corner of his eye, when Alfred stepped in with a silver tray, laden with food and drink and pills – once bright blue eyes seemed dark grey suddenly and his nose scrunched up, thin lips twisting distastefully.

“Master Bruce’s dinner,” Alfred said mildly and in no way suggestive of actually having seen the boy’s face, as he half-lifted the tray in gesture. “Rather early, but…well.”

Dick nodded a little, understanding, and rubbed circles across Timmy’s back where he sat next to him on the bed, Tim with his knees pulled up and his arms around his legs, toes idly curling, clasping at the covers.

“However, some water for you, Master Tim?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, “What’s in it?” he asked quietly, no absence of accusation in his tone.

Dick gave Alfred an apologetic look, though the butler hardly seemed fazed – and why would he be? He was _Alfred_ after all. The old man was well acquainted with all of their moods and their quirks, even if they didn’t think he’d been there for all of them, and even when they tried not displaying some in his presence. Dick had always thought, when he was younger, that it must be a butler-thing, but as he’d gotten older he came to realize it was much more of a (grand)father-thing. They were as much his charges – his _family_ – as Bruce had always been.

“Nothing but good old H2O, sir,” Alfred replied patiently – _that_ may have been more of a butler-thing, though, Dick mused.

Tim snorted grumpily, and Dick shook his head, smiling as he got up, “Come on, Timmy, you need your fluids.”

“Then you drink it first,” Tim mumbled, and Dick shrugged as he relieved Alfred’s tray of the extra glass.

Bruce was a workaholic on the best of days, but especially on the worst, with little to no _real_ regard for his health when he had no more than the common cold, even, and especially not when he was in the midst of a case with too much work to be done to worry about anything else.

Dick and Cass had begun dividing their time between Tim and Bruce – Cass a much better Batman-esque stand-in and just as feared besides, and Dick much better suited to working in the lab on antidotes and medicine and figuring stuff out.

But when that was no longer…well, _needed_ , except for Tim, Dick didn’t know what he was going to do – don the cape and cowl again? Part of him wanted to even less than the last time.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the Batsuit – Bruce’s at first, before he’d finally taken out the one tailored for _him_ to stare at that instead. Grimacing.

Cass had found him once, in passing, and, without even a pause she’d whispered, “I’ll wear it,” at his back and was gone when he turned around.

He found it eerie how well-suited she was for the role, even as she lacked certain pertinent abilities – reading, mostly, though it was getting better. Talking came more fluidly nowadays, even if she did still speak slowly. But then, Batman only needed a few words to get a job done and Cass’s slow, quiet way was more threatening than anything Dick could ever come up with.

But if Cass donned the suit all of Gotham would know the difference and react accordingly – which would still be chaos no matter how dangerous a Bat she was.

Gotham _needed_ a Batman. Needed _The_ Batman, which was why Bruce still _insisted_ on being out there at least four or five days out of seven, but he also insisted on trying to do everything himself regardless of anything. Dick and Alfred had started lacing his food with mild, harmless sleeping medication.

Bruce knew, of course, there was no way he couldn’t, but Dick suspected he was more grateful than anything else. Sleep was slow in coming otherwise, if at all, and he looked more exhausted by the day. The least they could do was make sure he was well-rested for patrols – or, that he missed one every once in a while.

Bruce hadn’t raised his voice about the latter again after he was too hoarse to manage another word the first time, for one thing, and had sent an eavesdropping Tim into hysterics at the noise, for another.

Tim’s suspicion wasn’t unfounded, thus – the boy knew he wasn’t sleeping, either. Each of them had come across him in the middle of the night, grinning at a closed window with no recollection of how long he’d been sitting there or what he’d been thinking of or when he’d climbed out of bed.

So Dick gave Alfred a _look_ just to be sure, and then turned to take a hearty sip so Tim could see. He grinned at the younger boy, who frowned and looked cowed and sorry.

“You don’t have to drink it right now,” Dick said, and placed the glass on Tim’s nightstand before reclaiming his seat on the bed, arm round Tim’s shoulders.

“Thanks, Alfred…” Tim had mumbled, eyes on the floor, and Alfred nodded cordially in reply.

“Indeed, sir,” face expressionless for all but a very _brief_ ly satisfied look. That was a butler-thing, too. The grandfather in Alfred was about as stressed-out as the rest of them – shoving cutlery back into cupboards and closing doors too loudly, scowling into space as he dried the dishes and kneading at his temples as he let his tea grow cold in the dead of night, having made it too hot in the first place.

“Master Dick…?” Alfred started up again and Dick raised his eyebrows in anticipation, Tim staring off again, leaning into his side. “A word, sir?” Alfred intoned quietly and Dick nodded, the old man stepping back into the hall as Dick turned to his little brother.

“I have to talk to Alfie, Tim,” he said as he stood, snapping Tim from his reverie to eye his eldest brother as Dick gently coaxed him into lying down. “Rest a little, just give me a sec.”

But Tim had drifted off again already, his blue eyes slipping to look at nothing, blank and far away.

Dick frowned as he wandered away, leaned against the doorframe as he faced Alfred, “Yup?”

Alfred’s voice was quiet, plainly for Tim’s benefit, and when he started Dick could see why, “Master Jason has taken up a familiar pastime.”

“He’s here?” Dick said urgently, only a little too loud but unable to stop himself. He hadn’t seen Jason in _months_. Hadn’t _heard_ anything since the once-Robin had phoned the manor weeks ago and wasn’t sure he wasn’t in some kind of trouble after all. Dick glanced back, to see Tim had scooted across the bed to the nightstand and was holding his glass of water firmly in both hands, chewing at his bottom lip and frowning. Dick dropped his voice, “How’s he look – he okay?”

Alfred nodded, “Seems to be, sir, I only caught him from a distance, still approaching the gate, to be honest. I know you’ve been anxious to see him.”

“Yeah,” Dick nodded.

“Then I shall see to Master Bruce,” Alfred hefted the tray in indication, “And return the girls home forthwith. Try not to linger outside, sir; it’s chilly.”

“Of course, Alfred,” Dick agreed with a small smile, though with Jason one could never really predict these things.

“I’m certain I don’t need to ask you to check that Master Bruce has eaten – and not fed his food to the dog,” Alfred added and Dick’s smile lingered between amused and bitter understanding. He nodded again. “And Miss Cassandra meant to read to Master Tim,” Alfred half-glanced down the hall, in the direction of the stairs as if Cass was just now due to come bounding up the steps, book in hand. She didn’t.

“I got it, Alfie. _Thank you_ ,” he added, and meant it sincerely. “We’ll be alright, don’t worry.”

“Very well, sir,” Alfred said in a less rare tone of fondness and Dick smiled as he watched the old man make his way down the hall to Bruce’s room.

He sighed, then, though – eager as he was to see Jason, he didn’t really want to leave Tim by himself, waiting for Cassandra.

Deciding he’d give her another couple minutes then – she was probably scouring bookcases for something simple to read amongst Bruce’s collection of complex stories and Alfred really should’ve just picked something out _for her_ , but never mind – Dick turned back to the room, only to halt in his tracks when he suddenly came face to face with Tim.

“Tim?” Dick asked, worried at once, which seemed to have become his default setting. “You alright?”

The boy was looking up at Dick with thin, firmly pressed lips and squinted eyes, wringing his hands.

He gulped in a big breath, and let it out even as he spoke, “You should go see—Jason,” he finished in a whisper.

“Um.” Dick blinked. “Uh, well, I will, Timmy,” and he touched a hand to Tim’s shoulder, guiding him around and back into the room. “But I don’t have to _right now_. We can still hang out a little,” he smiled, settling back onto his spot on the bed, surreptitiously giving Tim’s nightstand a glance – the glass of water had been returned to its perch, not a drop missing.

Tim stayed standing, though, watching Dick with a _frown_ that was just so very _Tim_ , it made his heart swell for a moment with fond familiarity. But then, Tim seemed to be considering Dick like a complex puzzle in need of intense scrutiny and plenty of time to solve; only he didn’t have the ability to produce either – a too-firm set to his jaw pointing at grit teeth and a twitch to his brow spoke of aggravated impatience. Tim’s raised hands bopped against each other, joints clicking.

“But you _want_ to,” he said, resolute, but… _resigned_ , and Tim’s eyes, downcast, darted this way and that nervously, glanced up at a corner and back. He did that sometimes, mostly when he thought no one was looking – considered corners as if something could be lurking in the shadows there. “So you should.”

Tim’s bumping joints missed and he jumped, hitting his fingers with his fist.

“Timmy—” Dick reached for his hand, but the boy pulled back, crossing his arms tight over his chest, fingers digging into his sides.

“’m fine…” shoulders hunched, he shrunk into himself a little more, eyes quickly scanning corners again before his gaze settled on Dick. “ _Here_.”

It was an odd look for the almost eighteen year old, to seem so childlike and _fragile_. Timmy had always been smaller than them, but never really _looked_ it, and certainly not like _this_.

Dick regarded his little brother a moment, unsure of what to say. Sometimes, Tim would wander off without a word – as at night when he settled in front of windows for no reason – and they’d find him in a deserted hall later, mumbling to himself (or the shadows on the walls, Dick tried hard not to think), but perfectly content on his own. And on other occasions he trailed after Dick or Alfred, or sat watching Cass pace as she read, or stared at Bruce in his study or while he slept, determined not to be _alone_.

At present, Tim looked dubious, and he felt it too, not wanting to keep Dick from his other brother, but not wanting the man to leave him either. Jason… _Jason_ didn’t _want_ anything to do with their family. He couldn’t care less, what was he even doing here? Tim didn’t want Dick to leave him to go to _Jason_ , but…but _Dick_ was so…he’d been _worried_. He missed Jason. Tim didn’t know. Didn’t know what to do – could he…? Could he be alone with the…? With…?

“Hey,” Dick cajoled, crossing the gap between them with his fingers spread, after all, grabbing onto Tim at the elbow and gently tugging him closer. “Jay’s not going anywhere yet,” he said, hoping it was true. If he was lucky, Babs and Steph, who’d been on their way to wait for Alfred by the car, had kept him lingering with lengthy conversation, and Cass was already on her way up with her book. “We can sit some more,” Dick touched at Tim’s other elbow with his free hand; _barely_ touching really, not wanting Tim to feel _trapped_ , but not wanting him to feel far away and alone either.

“But…” Tim mumbled, undeterred. “You _want_ to, and I. I-I just…I want you t—to…to be,” Tim blinked back and forth between Dick’s face and a shadowy corner, his cheeks going pink. “H-happy, I know—”

“Timmy, I’m not _un_ happy—” Dick said at once, gripping his little brother only a little tighter in assurance.

“ _Know_ I’m _not_ ,” Tim cut in, determined for Dick to hear, his voice a little stronger. “Not…” he shook his head, as if to rethink and –order his words. “You have. _Patrol_. And there’s…there’s _Bruce_. And now. _Jason_ ,” he whispered the name, barely audible. “And I’m—I’m no _help_ like this, and—”

“You don’t _need_ to be,” Dick clutched at Tim’s forearms. “You’re always the one with the _plans,_ and ideas, and—and _helping others_ – but now it’s _our_ turn, Timmy. Let _us_ —”

But Tim was already vigorously shaking his head, dark bangs flicking this way and that. “But you _need me_ , for this, and I can’t,” he ducked his head. “Can’t _think_. And you’re _stuck_ with me, and I should just—and I know it’s no…no f—”

“Tim—”

“ _Fun!_ ” Tim spat, and hiccupped, a high-pitch giggle breaking free from his throat and Tim had his hands slapped over his mouth next second, eyes wide and fearful.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dick chanted, rubbing at the younger boy’s arms and scooting a little closer in his seat, half-attempting to pull Tim into a hug, but, shoulders stiff and feet firmly planted Tim wasn’t having it and Dick didn’t push.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Tim breathed through his trembling fingers.

“Yeah, Timmy, I know,” Dick said quietly, giving Tim a small smile, “I know. But it’s fine. It’s fine, I…um, I – I like it when you laugh.”

Tim dropped his hands, giving Dick a dry, very _Tim_ look that, if Dick didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn everything else had just been an act.

“That was not a laugh, Dick,” Tim said scornfully, and refolded his arms, eyes on the carpet. He mumbled something Dick thought sounded like, “That wasn’t even me.”

He elected to ignore it – for now – and made to say something else when Tim cut in, “You should go,” he said simply, and graced Dick’s shoulder with a firm poke.

Dick chuckled, “ _Hey_ ,” and caught Tim’s hand and smiled at him.

Tim didn’t return it. “Jay… _Jason_ , would… _want_ to see you, too.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, keeping his skeptisism to himself, but then another notion came to mind, “You know, actually. I think he probably wants to see you, rather. He probably came to make sure you’re alright – Timmy, that’s not so farfetched—”

Tim was slowly shaking his head again, “I’m just the replacement, Dick,” he said solemnly, “ _His_ replacement as Robin—”

“ _Tim_ —”

“And now,” Tim _giggled_ , high-pitched and quick, and he didn’t try to muffle himself this time. “ _His_ replacement as…as The Joker—”

“ _No_ ,” Dick all but snapped, on his feet at once, hands firm on Tim’s shoulders. “You are _not_ that. You will _never_ be that. You are Timothy Drake-Wayne. You are _Red Robin_. You are my _little brother_ – you have _nothing_ to do with that clown. _Ever_. The Joker is _dead_ – _leave him be_.”

Tim blinked. “…Okay.”

Dick frowned, but sighed, “Okay.”

A beat passed, and Dick considered how to phrase an apology for snapping like that when Tim shuffled close enough to drop his forehead on Dick’s shoulder. “Don’t leave…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dick rubbed at his shoulders, and arms. “You can…you can come down with me – we can see Jason together—”

“No. Don’t want to see him,” Tim shook his head again. “Can’t – just... _don’t_ leave me, Dick—”

“I’m _not_ , little brother – I’m coming _right back_ , but I _need_ to know that Jason’s alright. He’s,” Dick leaned back far enough to tilt up Tim’s head and meet his eyes. “He’s my little brother, too. Just like he’s your big brother, too, right? …If it were _me_ , you’d want to go out and see me, right…? Just see that I’m okay?”

Somewhere inside that felt like a low, cruel trick, but Dick couldn’t help it – he _had_ to see Jason with his own eyes, but he couldn’t force Tim along and he couldn’t find it in his heart to just leave the boy in his room when he wanted Dick to stay, without a proper explanation or Tim understanding why.

Tim nodded at last, “Just…can you not leave me alone, in here…? Please,” he asked, tentative and quiet, and Dick’s heart clenched – something was wrong here. Too many things were wrong here. Tim hadn’t been this careful and quiet since before he’d become Robin, and even then not nearly this often. He’d always been brave and unashamed to speak or ask for what he needed – or take it sometimes – if it was the most logical thing to do.

He’d never been particularly reluctant to admit his fears, either, though Dick had always thought he’d been selective about which ones to reveal, when, and how he phrased that admittance, but – the way he went about it now…was entirely unlike him.

“Of course not,” Dick said, and threw his arm loosely around Tim’s shoulders, pulling him along toward the door. “Let’s find Cass. She can sit with you while I talk to Jason, okay?”

Tim looked unenthused, but nodded and followed nonetheless.

Coming down the stairs into the foyer with Tim, Alfred paused in the action of opening the front door to turn half-toward them, “Miss Cassandra has ventured outside, sir,” the butler said, saving them from having to scour the studies looking for her. “Do put on a coat, Master Dick.”

Dick nodded dutifully and waited for Alfred to step outside before turning to Tim. “I won’t be long, Timmy,” he promised, “And I’ll send Cass in right when I see her.”

Tim scowled at him, “I’m not a baby, Dick,” he grumbled, and glared at the floor, at the doorway down the hall toward the kitchen behind them, at the empty space beneath the stairs.

“I know, little brother,” Dick replied, and ruffled Tim’s hair, leaving the younger boy to duck and throw up his hands, trying to save his do. Dick chuckled at the sight, and laughed with more gusto when Tim retaliated with a half-hearted jab at Dick’s shoulder, smiling.

For a moment there wasn’t anything wrong – in _the entire_ world – and then Tim laughed, _happily_ , like he _used to_ , and Dick’s grin was wider, only to slip from his face at once when Tim’s laugh was followed by a loud, obnoxious _giggle_ , breaking the spell.

Eyes shut tight, like he was holding back tears, his nose scrunched up, lips no doubt twisted behind the immediate cover of his hands again, and Dick felt a pang of sympathy and dread.

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, glancing up at Dick.

“Don’t worry about it, Tim, don’t even think about it, you did nothing wrong,” Dick assured, but Tim stepped back as he reached out to him.

“Go,” the boy said, still from behind his hands, head bowed.

“Timmy—”

“Now!” Tim snapped, “Just—go on, t-talk to…” he trailed off, ducking his head more.

Dick hesitated, torn, “Are you…sure, Timmy?”

Tim nodded, and made a noise like an annoyed growl. Dick blinked and took a breath.

“Okay…” he sighed, and, glancing back right until the last second, he stepped outside.

Jason was just off the porch, a few paces on, Cassandra at his side and Alfred with them, the old man speaking. Dick caught the tail-end of what Alfred was saying before he started making his way to the car parked off to the side – Stephanie and Babs already waiting—

“Do step inside, sir. Before you catch a cold. For all that winter is on the rise still, the chill is hardly bearable.”

“You’re more than welcome, you know…” Dick tacked on, because Jason had to hear that.

Cass had said Jason had thought of the manor as _home_ the first time he’d wandered aimlessly through the gates and settled unmoving on their porch for an hour, apparently realizing it _wasn’t_. Only, now especially, Dick wanted it to be. Wanted to convince Jason it _was_. Even if Tim didn’t want to see him right now, and Bruce was another issue all his own, Jason still belonged to this family, and now, _especially_ , needed to be here.

Jason, who’d had his eyes on the ground the entire time, looked up abruptly, not having noticed Dick.

He _did_ look… _well_ , Dick thought. As if he’d gotten too little sleep, but that was par for the course in their line of work. Other than that, Dick couldn’t make out any obvious signs of hurt or injury.

Nearly scowling as he held eyes with Dick for a moment, Jason didn’t say or do anything for a beat, before he shoved the book he was holding at Cass, turning to march off in practically the same motion.

“ _Wait_ ,” Dick called, bounding down the last steps. “Where are you going?”

Cassandra caught Dick’s eye, nodded like she understood something he hadn’t said.

“Something I got to do,” Jason answered, half-dismissively, though he sounded strained.

“The Joker,” Cass input, not quietly enough for Jason not to hear, and at once Jay was increasing his pace.

Dick knew what Cass meant, knew what Jason intended – the ever-looming revenge for everything the Joker had ever done to them, but apparently no one had told Jason.

Cass was trotting back into the house with a mumble about Tim, which Dick was thankful for, because – he had another little brother to take care of at the moment.

Resolving himself not to beat about the bush, for Jason’s sake as much as anything else, he took another few steps in Jason’s wake, quick and precise as he spoke, loud and clear, “Joker’s _dead_ , Jason.”


	48. Loitering ch6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 24 December 2014.
> 
> Warning for Bad Language (of the f-word kind...) every chapter from here on out, really. It's a given at this point. Expect swears. Xo

_the need to know_

* * *

“People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

 

Jason barked out a laugh, which, admittedly, had not been the reaction Dick had been expecting.

“Seriously, _Dick_ ,” he said, quickly sobered, as he started turning around, one hand half-covering his mouth as though he’d realised he hadn’t _meant_ to laugh and breaking the previous silence had been almost sacrilegious. “Now’s really not the time to be kidding.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dick said firmly, but Jason, smiling sardonically, shook his head.

“ _Well_ ,” he said. “You _should be_.”

Dick shut his eyes, shook his head, sudden exasperation testing his patience.

Jason turned around again, and managed a few quick strides before Dick looked back up, “I wouldn’t lie to you, Jason,” Dick said quickly, moving forward and grabbing Jason by the shoulder, “ _Especially_ about _that_ ,” he emphasized, spinning the younger man around.

He was not so delusional as to think it wasn’t because Jason didn’t _allow it_.

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed,” Jason snapped, slapping Dick’s lingering hand away, but not backing off, instead closing in on Dick’s personal space – half-threateningly, almost. “You should really work on your… _presentation_ , maybe, because, for a world-class act, I’m not really buying your performance—”

“Jay—”

“Simply put: _I don’t believe you_ ,” he finished, as if Dick hadn’t tried to interrupt.

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes a second time and _breathed_. Jason not believing him wasn’t really a thing he’d been anticipating – some shock, _some_ disbelief in the expected _“Really, how?”_ fashion that wasn’t really _disbelief_ , exactly, and maybe some jumped-to conclusions and accusations in the form of _“How could Bruce have killed The Joker for the replacement, but not me?”_

Dick had mental arguments and explanations already planned – sort of – in his head for _those_ , but _this_ …

Not to mention Jason’s tone was just this side of sarcastic, and Dick wasn’t sure if he was being serious, or faking it so he could run off and have a nervous-breakdown somewhere alone.

“Don’t fret on it, Dickie,” Jason clapped his shoulder in plain _mock_ -sincerity, before stepping back. Dick watched him through his bangs, “Couple acting lessons I’m sure you could nail this ‘convince him our arch nemesis is dead’-tale you’re spinning. Might win a few awards, even.”

“Jason, be serious—”

“Oh, I _am_. Can’t you tell? I take my sarcasm _very_ seriously,” Jason spread his hands through the air, backing up even as he faced Dick, smirk sharp as knives.

“Take _me_ seriously,” Dick barked, but didn’t move to follow Jason anymore. “Take what I’m _saying_ seriously – The Joker is _dead_ —”

“Can’t do that, Dickie,” Jason spoke even before Dick had gotten all of the last word out, raising a halting hand and turning around even as he did so. “The bastard clown doesn’t die. He just _doesn’t_ ,” there was more than a little bitterness to his tone, and it tugged at Dick’s heartstrings.

“And _why the hell not?!_ ” Dick demanded stepping forward once, his fists tightly clenched now. “Why is it _so hard_ for you to believe he’s _dead?!_ ” Dick took a quick breath, disconcerted with his impatience – now was not the time to lose his head. Or his temper.

Jason had stopped, _again_ , which seemed to be the only way they could have a conversation nowadays – a series of steps and stops and turning back arounds.

He did, at that, but not before throwing his head back and raising his arms in a helpless gesture and half-sighing, half-groaning at the sky.

“Because _how_ would he die, Dickie? In this little fantasy of yours – how _does_ the clown bite the bullet?” he leaned forward, inviting an answer, stepping closer as he spoke, dark eyebrows lifting in expectation.

Dick swallowed thickly, loosening the clench of his hands, but not uncurling his fingers. “He…got shot,” he said at last, and when Jason let out another laugh it was less surprising this time.

“Well, kudos to me for the word-choice, huh?” he chuckled in Dick’s face, and it was a cruel and distorted sound Dick hadn’t known his brother could make. “So, whodunit? Bats, with the gun, in the belfry?” whatever, albeit derisive, amusement had been in his expression, swiftly fell into a harsh scowl, “Please _, spare me_ ,” he grit, his own hands fisted tight at his sides, Dick noticed, shoulders squared and tense. There were bags under his eyes – brilliant and sea- _green_ in his fury – and a once-bloody spot on his bottom lip as if he’d torn at chapped skin recently.

Dick clenched his teeth and watched Jason make another attempt to leave, getting as far as a step or two as always, before Dick had gathered courage enough to speak – _choke_ , really, “ _Tim did it_.”

The words came out loud, and _clear_ , even as the air seemed to stick in his throat and fill it up and constrict and squeeze and suffocate, and he just—

 _Fuck_ – _Tim_ had _killed_ The Joker.

Dick couldn’t remember how to _breathe_ , and when he blinked, quick and frustrated, there were tears.

If Jason’s shoulders stiffened any more, Dick was half-sure he’d start hearing them actually _crack_ under the pressure. Jason didn’t move, and when he spoke, his tone was strained, “That’s _cruel_ , Dick,” a beat. “That’s _not fair_ ,” it was quiet, and then he spun about again and swiped one hand through the air as he spoke, “That is _not_ fair! Replacement doesn’t _get_ to kill the clown in _any_ reality!”

Dick blinked, the pressure round his throat still tight, but lessened a little, and he almost _gasped_ in a breath at Jason’s words.

“ _Why_ …?” he breathed, mortified at what the answer might be.

“Because—” Jason only faltered for a _moment_ , before he continued, heated, grabbing hold of Dick by the collar of his shirt with both hands, “Because he’s freaking _Tim_ , that’s why! And he doesn’t _get_ to do it!” Dick’s fingers had curled around Jason’s wrists automatically, beneath the sleeves of his jacket, and his gloves, feeling at the erratic thump of his pulse. “ _I do_ ,” he hissed, glaring daggers at Dick, who had to swallow, and couldn’t hide what he knew was a sad, pained, _sympathetic_ expression on his face. Jason elected to ignore it, though, apparently, as he added, “Me, or _Bruce_ , no one else. No one else _deserves_ it.”

Dick already hated himself a little for the reply that jumped right to the tip of his tongue, because _shit_ – _none of them_ was supposed to be killing _anyone_.

Tim was _broken_ , and it wasn’t just because of Joker’s chemicals coursing through his veins, or the lingering giggles and the manic grin—

No.

It was the image haunting his every sleeping and waking moment, of The Joker, bloody and gasping for air and _choking_ on blood, still _laughing_ , and then suddenly _nothing_. Lifeless eyes left staring into space.

There was no going back from that.

No matter what Bruce said, and Dick echoed, or Alfred tried to reiterate, or _anyone_ _else_ , Dick knew Tim would always – _always_ – have a guilty, endless _pit_ in his stomach, trying to fill him up if he allowed it.

Though Joker had been a villainous, murderous bastard, he’d still been a _living person_ , and _Tim_ …Tim was responsible for the end of that life. Not to mention Bruce. Tim had broken Bruce’s _only significant rule_ : no killing. And with a gun, no less.

Some cynical part of Dick thought Bruce was only reassuring Tim that it was alright because Bruce didn’t want to leave the issue unresolved and festering inside of Tim when he was…when he was no longer there.

Otherwise, though…would he have even _tried_ to stop Tim if he was more serious about leaving? Would he just let him go like he had Jason?

Dick wondered if that was why Jason stayed away – too many deaths on his hands, too much blood, and _guilt_ —

Jason had no more right to kill the Joker than he had killing anyone else, and neither did Bruce, or Babs, or even Timmy, or even Dick himself, but they _had_ all been wronged, and Jason needed to see at least that much.

“No one else?” Dick said quietly, voicing the thought even as it made his stomach churn. He didn’t want to think of his family _killing_. “Not Babs?” Jason’s bottom lip had a minute tremor to it, his pulse jumping. “Not—not even _Timmy_ , after—” he couldn’t really finish that thought, but he tried anyway, “After what he _did_ to him?”

Jason averted his gaze, his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, and Dick wondered where he picked that up – because Dick did it, too, and so did Tim, and so had…Dami, on occasion. Did they get it from Bruce…? Was it a Robin thing?

“And _me?_ ” he added at last, and grabbed Jason by the lapels of his jacket even as Jason still clutched at his shirt. “Don’t I _get a shot_ at killing the clown?!” he snapped, and Jason’s gaze whipped back to him, eyes a little wide and startled. “After he’s _hurt_ my family the way he has?! After _everything_ he’s done to us – _all_ of _us!_ And you _still_ think it’s just about _you_ ,” he tugged at Jason’s jacket, “and _Bruce_ , and The _Joker!_ What about _Babs_? What about _Tim!_ ” he nearly shouted in the younger man’s face, “What about _me_ , Jason?!”

“Fuck, _shit_ , Dick,” Jason breathed, ducking his head, looking away. Dick breathed, quick and erratic, odd in the wake of his tight chest after admitting what Tim had done before.

Jason swallowed audibly, spots of colour on his cheeks, the storm in his eyes somewhat subsided as he raised his head at last.

Dick blinked, the tears still there; only, they were in Jason’s eyes now, too.

“At least,” Jason started into the following silence, haltingly, but then more firmly, if quietly, as he glanced away and back at Dick, “Least none of them are dead.”

“ _Neither_ are you!” Dick countered at once, clutching tight and all but _yanking_ at Jason’s lapels. Jason seemed to flinch, but spoke before Dick could say any more—

“ _Aren’t I_?” he asked, completely serious. “Isn’t there a case in the cave that _says so_?” he whispered vehemently.

Dick could _feel_ the blood draining from his face. “That’s just— _Bruce_ , I…” he faltered. They needed to talk.

They _needed_ to talk. Before it was too late.

“Come _inside_ , Jason,” Dick pled.

“No,” he replied instantly, trading Dick’s shirt for his hands, tried to _pry_ them off his jacket. “Let _go_.”

“Jason, please – you _need_ to talk to him—”

“Like hell I do,” Jason mumbled, no longer looking at Dick, more intent on pulling at his fingers.

“He’d _want_ to see you, please—”

“Then he can damn well come out here and see me – I’m not trailing after his ass—” Jason blinked at the lingering moisture in his eyes.

“He _can’t_ —” Dick implored, voice quiet, firm, but Jason cut him off.

“Damn it; let go or I am breaking every _finger_ on your hands, Dick—what do you mean ‘he _can’t_ ’?”

“He’s—” Dick started without thinking, and then stopped, because…how to phrase it? How to _say_ it? In true Bat-fashion none of them had (yet?), and maybe none of them _wanted_ to. Dick least of all (or, maybe that was Alfred). So they’d skirted around the word with euphemisms and subtle trailing offs, and Bruce let them have it… “Sick,” Dick said at last, his voice sounding small and _dishonest_ to his own ears.

Jason had gone still, his hands on Dick’s, his blue-green eyes going wide and narrow and darting across Dick’s face, and Dick knew, he _knew_ , Jason was just _reading_ it in his expression even as he tried to keep it blank.

“What…?” Jason frowned, looking nonplussed, his lips barely moving and his grip on Dick’s fingers visibly slacking. Dick was going to open his mouth and say something – soothing? Explanatory? Reassuring? _Something_ – but Jason’s response quickly jumped from confused to upset, and he had Dick by the front of the shirt again not a moment later, his voice loud and rough, “ _What_? Don’t you screw with me, Dick—”

Dick started shaking his head, meaning to assure Jason that he wasn’t, that he _wouldn’t_ , but a little trickle of anger made its way to the surface and he indulged therein instead, giving Jason a hard yank by the lapels, and shooting him a _look_ , eyes narrowed at the younger man’s face – and, damn, did he look _young_.

He could see for himself Dick wasn’t lying.

“How the _hell?_ ” Jason all but growled, through his teeth, brows furrowed furiously, grip tightening on Dick’s shirt. He knew now. He understood, Dick could see it in his eyes and… “And _why the hell_ am I the last to _know?!_ ”

Dick’s glare faltered at once, his gaze slipping to his hands and his shoulders slumping. “Little Wing,” he whispered, “I…” he had to swallow, past the lump suddenly formed in his throat at the remembrance of concern and upset and desperation. “I _wanted_ to tell you, _of course_ I did,” he spoke to his hands. “I _tried_. I tried finding you, to tell you, to explain, but I couldn’t,” he looked up, well aware of the plea in his eyes. “You weren’t _anywhere_ , little brother. No safe-house I knew of, no _lackey_ —” he spat with some amount of venom, the thought of his little brother a _crime lord_ with low-lives as _subordinates_ irked him to no end, “—I beat up could tell me where you were, no informants had a clue—” Jason blinked at that, but Dick didn’t see, having looked away again.

And then he had a renewed _grip_ on Jason’s jacket, “You were just _gone_ ,” Dick searched his face, but though Jason looked less upset he had a much better reign on his expression than Dick. “Just _gone_ , like— _Tim_ , and I _thought_ —” he couldn’t finish, ducked his head instead, _clutched_ at Jason’s jacket. “Little Wing,” he mumbled. “You had me so worried,” Jason swallowed reflexively, shifted his shoulders, his hold on Dick’s shirt, plainly uncomfortable.

“Where were you?” Dick asked, still quiet, still eyeing his hands. Jason shifted his gaze, nipped at his bottom lip and shook his head, looked _guilty_ , but Dick didn’t see any of it, only looking up when Jason made to take a step back, pulling on his jacket to keep him in place.

“I was just…” he mumbled, and trailed off and clearly had no intention of finishing. Dick was already speaking over him—

“ _Why_ couldn’t I find you, Jay? Where did you disappear to?”

“None of your business,” he muttered in reply, no bite to the words.

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick insisted, all the frantic nerves and worry he’d been harbouring since discovering his other little brother was missing, too, squirming beneath the surface, desperate to be settled. He traded Jason’s collar for his shoulders, “Please,” Jason half-rolled his eyes, looking away, at the sky, at the grounds where Alfred and the girls had long since departed. Dick tried catching his eye, “Just tell me where you were – were you—” words caught in his throat, insides roiling with feelings he couldn’t quite place – regret, and guilt, and desperation, and _sorrow_ for his family, and how everything went so _wrong_ all at once, “ _Hurt_? Or—”

“No,” Jason said plainly and too seriously for Dick to think he was covering up an injury, but the older man’s insides felt only marginally better.

Because if not _that_ , “Then _what_? Where did you go?”

“I was—”

“We don’t just _drop off the grid_ like that, Jason, you _know that_.”

Jason almost looked like he was going to argue, as ever, that he wasn’t part of the club, but he opened and closed his mouth and looked and looked away instead, and _struggled_ to give Dick the answer he wanted. He _gripped_ at Dick’s shirt, and dropped his head, hands following suit, “I was…” he started again and trailed off.

Dick swallowed, and watched Jason stare at the ground, looking a little… _defeated_ , and tried _willing_ him to continue, fingers twitching on the younger man’s slumping shoulders. They were broad – like Bruce’s, Dick thought – but they seemed weighed down by some invisible force Dick couldn’t begin to figure out where or how to lift.

Jason raised his hands again to wipe both across his face even as he kept his head bowed and said, albeit quietly, “Was looking for the kid…”

Realization dawned, and an unbidden smile just _tugged_ at the corner of Dick’s mouth, “Tim?” he asked, sounding ridiculously hopeful.

Jason nodded solemnly, straightened up a little, but didn’t look at Dick, “I knew…Joker had him, and they were…‘off the grid,’ and if anyone was going to find them, they were gonna have to be off the grid, too…” he explained, a little haltingly, and then he added, looking like he wished he hadn’t even as he spoke, “I didn’t tell you, cause…” Dick searched his face, torn between having some sympathy for what he was almost _certain_ Jason was going to name as a reason, and being _angry_ at the kid for still beating down that door. Jason caught his eye though, and maybe it was written on Dick’s face, because Jason gave a different answer than what he expected, “There was, no time, I,” he waved a hand and looked away again, mumbling to a close, “Just wanted to find the kid.”

Dick let it go. And smiled.

A little at first, “And you _did_ , Jay… _you_ called Alfred! At the _manor_!” and then he was grinning, shaking Jason by the shoulders a little because the younger man seemed determined not to share in Dick’s joy, or look right at him. A delighted little laugh escaped him and he’d closed the gap between them, “Shit, never heard of a secure line, Jay?” throwing one arm round Jason’s neck and the other over his arm to clutch at the back of his jacket all at once, pinning him close in half a bear hug.

“All the lines are sec— _Dick_ —”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dick said, serious and sincere, squeezing a little tighter. “If you hadn’t,” he shook his forehead against Jason’s shoulder, and idly wondered how his little brother had gotten to be so tall? “…The Joker was—”

“I don’t want to know,” Jason cut in quickly. “Wh- _whatever_ he did, I, I don’t—”

“Yeah, okay,” and Dick squeezed. “I’m sorry, I should’ve…figured.”

Jason didn’t reply, but shifted his shoulders uncomfortably – a subtle request for Dick to let go, perhaps.

He didn’t.

“Dickie, let go,” Jason said, as if using words was the better tactic. He pushed at Dick’s side with his free hand, but Dick clutched at him tighter.

“Suck it up, Jay,” Dick snapped, “You are my little brother, and you’re—” what? Hurting? Broken; Cass had called him broken, and Jason looked…he just _looked_ …Dick didn’t know what else to do. “I’m _thanking_ you and I’ll let you go when _I’m_ good and ready, so shut-up.”

Jason _sighed_ after a moment, slumping a little further in Dick’s hold, and Dick felt him shake his head, too-long hair at Dick’s temple and then Jason had dropped his head onto Dick’s shoulder.

Dick smiled a little.

“Tell me about…” Jason started, only just not whispering.

 _About…? Joker dying,_ Dick thought. _Oh,_ not _that, little brother._

Just _thinking_ about it before had turned Dick’s stomach; he really didn’t want to have to recount the entire event to satisfied Jason’s morbid, vindictive curiosity. Even if he _did_ deserve to know.

_Just not right now…_

“B,” Jason finished finally. “And the…what happened…?”

“…You could ask him that yourself,” Dick whispered, and Jason at once squirmed in his hold, pushed him again, with actual force this time, and Dick wasn’t surprised at the growl of his name. “Okay,” he said, relenting, and he stepped back, releasing Jason for all but a hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm.

Jason scowled at him and Dick sighed, dropping his hands.

Jason, presumably, wasn’t going anywhere – he’d _asked_ to know this, after all, and hopefully he wouldn’t rush off mid-tale.

“Poison,” Dick explained, and watched Jason’s brow furrow. Dick carried on before he could ask how that was even possible – how did _Batman_ get _poisoned_? “It was…shortly after Timmy went missing. He was working a drug case at the time, and Bruce and I had no reason to suspect his disappearance didn’t have anything to do with that, so…we retraced his steps. Trying to find who might have gotten to him, and how, and why—” Dick waved his hands as he spoke, shifted his weight, sighed.

Jason was watching him almost pensively – Dick didn’t know, probably, that Jason had been working the same case on the other side of town, surreptitiously keeping an eye on Red Robin’s progress and under no illusions that the little bird was monitoring him, as well.

Though they never met to share notes, the case was still why Jason had heard about Red’s disappearance in the first place. He’d dropped it after almost a month with no progress on the Bat’s side in finding his lost little bird, and had rather taken up that case himself, inexplicably…worried, he supposed. He had deeper, shadier contacts than the Bat, and when he learned who was most likely responsible, he’d taken matters into his own hands tracking them down.

When he did though, Jason couldn’t bring himself to _go to_ The Joker and take the little bird back, because he knew he’d leave a grinning body behind and he just…at the time, oddly, didn’t _want_ to do that, but didn’t trust himself not to.

So he’d dialled the first number that came to mind when he tried to remember how to contact Bruce, and rattled off an address at the British accent on the other end, only realising he’d phoned the _manor_ after he hung up the phone in Alfred’s ear. In his defence, he may or may not have been a little out of it at the time – running on too much caffeine and too little sleep and food and basic need-fulfilling necessities.

Sometime later he’d debated calling again, to make sure they’d gotten the message and was following the lead, instead of thinking it was a potential trap or something, but…Jason considered the old man _could_ have recognized his voice, _and_ calls were recorded, and it was _Alfred_ , and Tim was _missing_ – he’d _bully_ Bruce into checking it out, _at least_. Jason had hoped, and spent weeks in uncertain turmoil until he couldn’t take it any longer and _needed_ to know.

“I don’t know _how_ Bruce got infected,” Dick continued. “With Tim gone, and…you, too,” he added quietly, half-gesturing his little brother, “So busy, and worried, and trying to find you both, he didn’t…didn’t tell me. Or Alfred. Or anyone…

“There’s…no antidote, Jay… No cure. Or. If there is, we started looking too late, we can’t…anymore, there’s just…there’s nothing—” he couldn’t finish any of those sentences, they all sounded too final, and even as he was saying it, Dick knew it wasn’t. Not for him, at least.

“…Just giving up on the old man, then,” Jason muttered, and Dick’s gaze snapped up from where it had slipped to the floor. Jason was glancing off to the side and Dick almost didn’t think he’d actually spoken.

“Of _course_ not!” Dick snapped, though, unable to stop himself. “We’ve tried _everything_. We’re still trying everything – _I’m_ trying everything—”

“Alright-alright, untie your panties,” Jason said, raising both hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it, I…” Dick’s shoulders slumped and Jason stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that…”

Dick lowered his gaze, smiled a little, and meant to make some joke about…how impossible Jason could always be, and how, ‘when he’d been a kid,’ and Dick—

Or _something_.

But then Jason had started moving again, “I have to go.”

“Jason,” Dick had him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Please come inside, you and Bruce—”

“No.”

Dick wasn’t going to make shaking him off easy for the kid, though, “— _need_ to talk, and _settle_ things once and for all. Before – _before_ , Jason, please—”

“I said, no, let me go—”

“No – you are just being a stubborn _ass_ —”

“No more than _you_ —”

“—and _someone_ needs to—”

“ _Let me go_ —”

“No! You are _still_ — _Jason_ —”

“Lemme—”

“—a _part_ of this family—”

“—let _go_ , Dick!”

Dick _should_ have seen Jason’s fist coming, he just…

Was on his feet one moment, and on the ground the next, a _throbbing_ ache in his cheek settling into a painful tingle. Dick stared – at Jason almost _looming_ over him, looking—

Well. Like he regretted it.

“ _Dammit_ , Dickie!” Jason snapped, and Dick blinked at Jason’s expression – all furrowed brow and scrunched up nose, and thin lips, and teary eyes like he was fifteen again. Jason _dragged_ his fingers through his hair, almost trembling; wild teal eyes darting about uncertainly.

He was turned in the next moment, just _marching_ away.

“Jay…” Dick…tried? Half-heartedly. He already knew it was too late. Jason heard, though, and spun around even as he still walked to snap—

“For heaven’s sakes, Dick, let me go!” he was two steps along before he broke into a damn _run_ , leaving Dick _sitting there_ , just staring at him, and staring at the gates long after he was gone.


	49. Loitering ch7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 20 Feb 2015.
> 
> This chapter is stupidly long, and has been edited more than any other chapter in the story. It was really hard to get right. :/

_attempting bravery_

* * *

‘But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. _That_ was brave.’

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

* * *

A trail of footprints in the snow decorated the driveway in his wake.

Evidence of his approach.

One more reason he could add to the seeming ever-growing list of why leaving now would only serve to make him feel _more_ embarrassed and stupid than actually knocking on the door would.

…So he might as well?

He thought he didn’t particularly _want_ to, but…potentially, that was just the influence of his own… _what_?

Fear?

Cowardice?

Jason didn’t know which one he wanted it to be; which one would be better.

…He was beginning to wonder if they weren’t inherently the same thing, after all.

If he was too afraid to enter this once sort-of-home from a childhood that seemed to belong to someone else entirely, the more he thought about it; wasn’t that cowardice?

Considering the circumstances? Considering his mental list of reasons for entering – one to dispute every excuse he’d had for not coming, every excuse he was conjuring up now against staying even as he made to knock. All of those reasons sounding much the same, but _that_ somehow only _reinforcing_ their importance, or, their _need_ , rather than shrinking them against the variety of excuses they were meant to dispute.

…

No… Being afraid didn’t necessarily make you a coward.

Jason had never thought of himself as a coward before; had always tried hard to be brave, even and especially when he was, in fact, scared.

Times when his father went out at twilight and came back at dawn with new bruises colouring his skin, lengthy dark hair a new kind of disarray; staggering, drunk, and his breath a pungent stink of mixed drinks that burned Jason’s nostrils as he led his father inside, small hands on the man’s broad back.

Jason had been scared on those days.

Scared for his mother, who locked herself in the bathroom for Jason to find later; passed-out, pale and breathing too shallow, mumbling at him with little coherence.

He tried being brave then, washing her face, singing or humming because it made her smile even if he wasn’t sure she actually heard him right. _Somehow_ , he’d tuck her into bed without crying.

Too much.

He was scared over his dad, too. Scared he wouldn’t come back at dawn. Scared he’d come back drunk. Scared he’d come back sober. Scared he’d come back with friends. Scared he’d come back with enemies.

Jason tried being brave, once he caught on that his dad was leaving, sometimes before sunset, sometimes long after – when Jason was supposed to be sleeping, instead of listening to the sounds of his parents talking, or fighting, or not speaking at all and the only noises to be heard then were the creaks of the apartment, and the ragged breathing of their tiny old dog in Jason’s arms.

Jason tried taking care of the dog; tried taking care of his mom; tried taking care of his dad when he came back; tried taking care of the house. Tried not crying.

Too much.

When his father eventually went to prison, Jason tried _harder_. He couldn’t always manage not being scared, but he could always try being brave. You could be one without the other. And you could be both.

If nothing else, he’d learned being brave took a lot of guts. Took _something_ that was buried deep down inside, and just _needed_ a purpose to get out. Like doing the _right_ thing.

_That_ was a purpose – a _good_ purpose. That was _brave_ , even when you were scared.

As Jason had gotten older he’d learned, and believed, that doing the wrong thing when you had the opportunity to do the right one, despite hurting yourself, or someone you loved – _making_ that choice, _picking_ the wrong road because it was _easier_ to travel, more _convenient_ not to care—was _cowardice_.

Jason knew all about that by now.

He’d been on the receiving end of those consequences for what felt like most of his life – both of them.

His father had been a thief and a gambler and a drunken bastard-liar who cared too much about the money, or the score, or the job, and the _street-cred_ than either his wife or his son.

His mother…had been too caught up in herself, too dependent on her addictions to care for her son, or care about what her husband was doing.

Taking care of her had taught Jason how to take care of himself even as it had hurt.

…Under his skin.

…

_On the inside_.

Because, for all the pain she’d caused him, and all the ways she’d let him down, he _loved_ her inexplicably, without hesitation.

…

Perhaps because, when she hadn’t been incomprehensible, wide-eyed, pale and scaring him half to death, unmoving, grinning childishly – _high_ – she’d been…been _his mother_.

Wrapped her arms about his thin shoulders and pressed him close. Smiled beside his ear and said his name.

_“Jason._

_“Come_ here _, let me_ hug _you—!”_

_“Mooooom—”_ before she planted a peck on his cheek and laughed, wandering off when he made to swat her away with one hand. She’d come back with cookies, or a sandwich, or juice, or water, or another hug, and helped him with his homework. While he’d still _had_ homework.

Jason had no memories like those of his father.

They’d done things together, sure. Maybe when he was very little they’d done father-son stuff. Whatever that might have entailed. Maybe he’d just been too little to remember.

He’d learned from his father’s mistakes long ago, and had built up his own unique skill-set from the man’s teachings and successes, which were the only memories of his father Jason had, excluding the more vivid bad ones.

His father had never been more than a frame of reference, and a thorn in young Jason’s side, and a demon in his head, and a haunting visage of what his future had the potential of being.

Jason had taught himself to heed that image earnestly, and steer as far clear of that path as he possibly could.

His father’s was a cautionary tale Jason carried with him, but had no love for and did not dwell on. Instead there was a different figure that had become more prominent in Jason’s life – in both of them – than his real – in the biological sense – father had ever been.

The same way his mother had been.

A man for looking up to and aspiring to be like. Whose back seemed even broader than his real father’s had been where Jason’s hands would rest, leading another body forward – after a late, gruelling patrol, Batman limping and stumbling forward even as Jason – as _Robin_ – tried keeping him upright until they got to the cave’s Med Bay where Alfred could stitch the older vigilante up.

Bruce Wayne would pull back his cowl and smile at Jason, and Jason could _still_ feel the stretch of his skin from when his face would split into a returned grin, whenever he thought about that. Because when Bruce had left the house in the middle of the night, he was tracking down the thieves and lackeys and drug-dealers that were making the lives of kids like Jason hell, and locking them up where they couldn’t hurt themselves or their families, or other innocent people’s families, anymore. He was Batman, and Jason had admired and respected that – as much as he admired and respected…and _loved_ the man beneath the cowl.

He had vague recollections of one large, affectionate hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing.

_“Good work, Jason.”_

Of training, and late nights, talking, and watching movies and—

Jason shook his head fervently, dragged his fingers through his hair and rested his forehead against the cool wooden door.

He was scared.

But he couldn’t be a coward.

He needed to be brave, like he’d been when he was a kid – when his mom needed him, when his dad needed him. When Batman needed him.

He needed to be braver than Catherine Todd who couldn’t overcome her drug-addiction to take care of her son. Braver than Willis Todd who couldn’t get off his lazy ass and find a real job instead of going for easy money.

…Braver than Bruce Wayne. Batman. Who couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – sacrifice a little of himself to get justice for the boy he called his partner, his _soldier_. His…son. Maybe.

…

The way Bruce had been, before he’d died… his…father.

If only _that_ wasn’t also the reason why he was so damn _terrified_.

The fact of the matter was, Bruce supposedly dying the first time had shook and angered Jason to the point of lashing out in the only, ridiculously _childish_ manner he’d known, still openly clinging to things and flaunting beliefs he’d privately accepted his once-father and the man’s legacy would never agree with and were never meant to portray.

Coming back from the dead, confronting Bats about not killing the Joker in the wake of Jason’s murder, had left him with a searing sadness inside and a grudging increase of respect for the man whose partner he’d been.

Because for all that Bruce hadn’t done the right thing, hadn’t killed the Joker – for justice, for Jason, for all the innocent people he would hurt in the future (Barbara; Timmy…) – he hadn’t done it _lightly_.

It had been a hard choice for him.

He hadn’t picked a cowardly, easy way out even if Jason had thought so at first, and been disappointed in his father-figure.

Facing Bruce in that old, dilapidated apartment, Joker trussed up to a rickety chair and a bouquet of explosives ticking away at their feet—

Jason had spent weeks after the explosion, languidly recovering, while he tried figuring out how much of what Bruce had said the night of his return was real.

The man had never shown as much emotion wearing the cowl as he had that night, not even in the safety of his own cave – and in front of the Joker no less.

But Jason hadn’t been sure if it had been real, or a ploy to placate him. To diffuse the situation and take him down.

Had he been lying when he’d confessed to considering killing the clown practically every day after Jason’s death? Lying when he’d said it was too hard a choice to make, and the wrong one besides, because he – _Bruce_ – _had_ to sacrifice that desire; that _need_ to kill the Joker for his son – because Gotham needed a Batman with boundaries.

A Batman who couldn’t lose control that way. He had to stay within the perimeters he’d set for himself; that the city had set for him. To be an example. To stay above the murderers and criminals he was meant to put away, and not become one himself, no matter how badly he _wanted_ to.

…

That was brave…

…

…?

Jason could, however grudgingly, _live with it_ , he’d decided eventually.

He could live with that even as some part of him wasn’t able to quell the flush of anger – or the stinging, bitter _hurt_ – colouring his insides whenever he thought about it, or came across Bruce or his brood on patrols.

Nightwing – Dick – who’d stared and grinned, and maybe even cried a little seeing Jason for the first time, even though Jason had tried forcing his father to shoot another man and then blew them all up as a peak in the performance.

Robin, Red Robin – Tim. Tim who was just a _kid_. As if throwing Jason’s memory away, calling him a failure and a mistake as if he had been some _botched experiment_ , and then discarding him as a bad Robin and a _villain_ when he’d come back ( _broken_ …broken?), wasn’t enough, Bats had _replaced_ him with a(nother) _kid_. Coming back from the dead, after _dying_ at _fifteen_ , Jason had learned several things from both experiences: kids weren’t _meant_ to be sidekicks, psychopaths didn’t _deserve_ to live, and, the next time he bit the bullet, he was being cremated.

Beating Tim to a bloody pulp wasn’t enough of a warning for Bruce though, because the kid stayed Robin, and after Bruce’s supposed death, Dickiebird in all his self-righteous glory, had passed on the mantel to Bruce’s biological little brat – Damian Wayne. He needed an outlet, was the sloppy excuse, and if Jason had thought it would make any kind of difference he’d have done more to argue the point – but then, he’d concluded at last, what did it matter; he wasn’t family anymore.

Besides which, a little more time finally taught them that lesson while Jason had still mostly been struggling with Bruce’s miraculous return from his time-traveling odyssey, anyway.

Not dead then, after all.

Nothing much had changed between them, either. Jason was still Bruce’s biggest mistake, and, spitefully, painfully, Jason was still the thorn in his “old man’s” side.

…

Jason had never said “I told you so” even though he’d felt the words scratching at the back of his throat several times. Because Jason knew what it felt like.

Losing family.

He’d lost Bruce…more than once. _Been_ lost, and been abandoned, more than once.

He felt that loss – _keenly_ – whenever their paths crossed.

But he could hardly admit it when nothing had changed for Bruce. He was still _dead_. He would always be fifteen year old Jason Todd, status _deceased_.

It took losing another Robin for Dick to attempt crossing the bridge and inviting him back over, but…even though Jason had made uneasy peace with Bruce’s inability to avenge _any of them_ , apparently, he could never admit as much to the man’s face – not even _after_ his regret when he’d believed Bruce to be dead – and neither was Bruce about to welcome him back with open arms no matter what Dick wanted to believe.

The best they could do was co-exist relatively peacefully – Bats and his brood on one side of the city, and Jason, discarded and secretly still damaged, ruling the other side.

He still didn’t _know_ what the _hell_ had possessed him, to _cross_ that carefully, tentatively placed line, and march right up to the Bat’s damn _house_ like it partially _belonged_ to him; more or less eight months ago now.

Perhaps Damian’s last request had finally begun to influence him. Perhaps it had been the weather. The season. The _date_. Perhaps he’d simply been lost… _adrift_ without direction. Which better way to go than home…?

Jason’s heart ached at the thought.

He opened his eyes, not knowing when they’d closed, and stared at the wooden door.

This wasn’t home. It had been, _once_ , but he had no right to it any longer.

He hadn’t been brave enough to fight for it. He hadn’t been strong enough to forgive his sort-of-father, couldn’t give up his own beliefs and forget. Couldn’t go back to following the Bat’s rules – and would it really have been such a bad choice? It would have been easy…

Cowardly?

Really?

Locking up Gotham’s scumbags rather than sending them straight to the hell they deserved, if it _gave him_ what he _wanted_?

If it allowed him _home_?

… _Yes_.

Fuckit, _yes_. _Always_ yes.

Because his way had been the _right_ way. The right way for him, for Gotham, and he couldn’t live with himself if he just _let_ so many murderous, drug-peddling _bastards_ rot in jail for a little bit only to come back out and wreak a hell of a revenge on new innocent people just because Jason craved his family back.

There were other people who deserved families more than he did.

He’d always known that.

So _why_ he’d come looking for his old one that day he couldn’t _begin_ to fathom.

And it scared him.

It had scared him ending up here with no purpose. And now it scared him because he was here with reason for a change.

Moreover, he’d been…well, he’d bloody well been _invited_. Fucking _summoned_ , in fact.

Because…because it was different this time.

The old man was _really_ …dying this time.

His…his _father_ was—

Jason had to suck in a breath and turn his back on the door, clenching a fist against his forehead, eyes shut again, unable to finish the thought.

He breathed, _deep_ , through his nose, and let it out in a huff, eyes opening to the snow-covered grounds, hands settling on his hips, a rigid tenseness in his shoulders. He rolled them back and forth uneasily, rubbed at the back of his neck with cold fingers – he’d put his gloves somewhere he couldn’t remember, which was stupid, but—

Not important.

…

Jason took another breath, letting it out slowly this time, as his gaze roamed across the snow, the footsteps he’d left – a solitary trail, pausing to backtrack at irregular intervals, before turning around _again_ and _again_ , and _again_ , to create a dizzying mirage of stomping, trudging, sauntering feet belonging to more than one person, all of them crowding together and moving this way and that without anyone moving back and only one making it forwards.

Jason swallowed.

There was no more going back.

He was already here and he _needed_ to do this. _Selfishly_ , he _wanted_ to – because this wouldn’t be for anyone other –well, mostly – than him.

He needed to be brave for himself, to be _honest_ for a change – with _Bruce_ , with himself, with the dead fifteen year old kid that didn’t exist anymore and wasn’t important no matter how much he’d thought he was or wanted to be.

There wouldn’t _be_ another chance to settled this; once and for all.

Jason spun, boots sliding around and clearing a patch of snow from the porch, leaving white slush in a heap.

It was Cassandra who opened the door when he knocked – _finally_ – almost at once, and Jason wondered if she’d been standing on the other side just waiting for him to pluck up the courage.

He swallowed again, throat unexpectedly dry, palms sweaty despite his cold, numb fingers.

She peered up at him, brown eyes squinting, and Jason would have opened his mouth to snap at her to stop it if he’d had any fire left in his gut, but…everything was cold and unfeeling at the thought of what he meant to do. As if he’d quite suddenly shut right down inside, like that would make it easier – not thinking about it, not feeling anything.

Lips thinning as she regarded him, her eyes darting this way and that between his own had Jason shifting his weight, unable to contain all of his discomfort – she was _reading_ him, he knew that. Like a damn book, and he didn’t like it – until finally she shook her head, quickly, averted her gaze and stepped back, pulling the door further open as she went.

She was wearing a faded brown sweater at least three sizes too big for her small frame, the sleeve bundled up in the palm of her hand, held out for him in invitation.

Jason bit at his lip, staring at the clear entryway into the gloomy foyer with a bout of apprehension chewing away too quickly at his calm disassociation.

He was anxious and scared all over again.

He hadn’t set foot in the manor since _before he’d died_.

He hadn’t _expected_ , in that damned warehouse, feeling all alone even as his biological mother stood not two feet away, to ever set foot in the manor again.

And then, much later still, he hadn’t thought he ever wanted to again.

That part of his life was over. That Jason was gone.

He didn’t want to—

He _couldn’t_ —

Swallowing reflexively, for the third time in as many minutes, Jason made to move – _forward_ , for goodness’ sake, but—

There was an itch in his throat, and a hitch in his breath, and his fingers were twitching and—

He thought he could feel every tic of his muscles, every blood-pumping beat of his heart, the expansion and contraction of his lungs as he breathed, and every pause between—

His lips were trembling—

A little sway, a stutter, to his shoulders, his knees, when he _meant_ to step forward, but didn’t—

And then all the air in his lungs came out in a _rush_ , shoulders slumping, his body just _falling_ forward of its own accord as he bent over, one palm hitting the still-closed door on his right and the other making a _smacking_ sound that seemed to echo in his ears as he hit his forehead.

_I can’t_ —stuck somewhere in his head or halted on the tip of his tongue, or maybe he had said it after all, he didn’t know—

He clutched at his hair, yanked a little, and bit into his lip, and shut his eyes tight until all of it just _hurt_ , before he could breathe again and straighten up.

It hadn’t occurred to him until he’d opened his eyes and found the entryway right in front of him still empty, how awful it would have been if someone had, in the meantime, entered the room.

The clench in his chest eased at the knowledge that no one had.

There was still Cassandra, of course, half-hidden behind the door as she’d been the very first time he’d seen her, her inviting gesture dropped and her gaze, he was embarrassingly thankful to see, on the wooden tiles at her feet.

Jason was just contemplating what he could possibly use to back-up a threat accompanied by “don’t tell anyone I was here,” and then sprint off, when she looked up – _sharply_ , and narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly at him before she’d _moved_ —

Out from behind the door, her sleeve-clad fingers grasping firmly around his wrist, forcing him forward as she pulled—

Jason pulled back – a quick, _angry_ flick of his wrist, and, almost _instinctively_ , unintentionally – _habitually_ – he tapped into that trickle of seemingly ever-present anger, letting it spur him ahead, acting with it as his driving force – like he always seemed to do; like he’d always _seemed_ to do—

“ _Let go_ , I don’t need your damn help—”

He’d tracked snow across Alfred’s immaculately polished floor with a jerky pause at the door, a scowl at Cassandra, another deep breath, and a determined set to his jaw as he finally crossed the threshold – only to halt, several steps into the dimly lit foyer, with a shuddering breath at the realization of what he’d done.

He rounded on Cassandra, furious, and scowled at her, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms—

She was only _just_ not grinning at him, the smug expression hovering at the edge of her features even as there lingered a hint of sympathy in her dark eyes. It only turned Jason’s scowl deeper, and he looked pointedly away, but couldn’t do much more than that – sound stuck in his throat, unable to escape and form words or sentences, and his limbs felt stiff and weighted, disabling movement.

He was stuck. Stuck in the foyer of a house he’d once called home, that had felt more home than any place had been before or after, for longer than any other place had ever felt.

And he remembered – trudging down the staircase, wrist trailing along the banister, and not a trace of dust on the end of his sleeve when he checked at the bottom.

When he’d only just arrived, Alfred would find him at the foot of the steps and greet him with a formal nod, and Jason – what had he been; twelve? – short, scrawny-ass kid, nervous as all hell and chewing at the inside of his cheek till it bled, would sort of nod back and almost smile, and try really, really hard not to cry like a damn baby because it had been several weeks already since he found his mom, pale in a different way than the usual, not breathing – taking him all of three minutes to realise she was _dead_ , and five more before he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and fifteen more before he trailed off, no longer whispering at her to _come back, dammit, don’t leave me_ , but she was – _not_ coming back, and he _wasn’t_ a baby anymore, and he couldn’t _still_ be crying over her. Especially not in front of strangers.

Only, things had been so _new_ and unfamiliar, and strange, and he missed her _more_ because of it, and he felt guilty as _sin_ , because things were _better_ for him now – better than she’d ever managed to make it, better than his dad had ever tried to have it – and if he’d known, if he’d _known_ , trying to jack the Bat’s wheels was all it would take to make things _better_ he’d have done it a long time ago instead of trying to stay good and straight for his mom—

Jason blinked. And couldn’t breathe.

Alfred would lead him into the kitchen just around the stairs, through a doorway down the hall, into a pristine white palace Jason didn’t want to touch for fear of leaving smudges even though he knew, in the back of his mind, his hands were clean. He had decent baths nowadays—

Jason sucked in a heady breath of air—

Alfred would present him with freshly-prepared meals, enough to ignite his taste buds with unique and never-tasted-before flavours, and leaving him with the supposed certain promise of more to come when next his tummy rumbled.

Jason would smile gratefully, but watch the food with a trickle of apprehension before digging in, chewing around the guilt that came inexplicably with having food and a table to sit at when he’d been digging through dumpsters not a week ago, because _he was still hungry_ , and barely a week from now he might yet find himself in front of that very same dumpster again.

Stretching his healing chest almost painfully—

So he ate everything presented no matter what kind of delicious or faintly atrocious taste it may have left in his mouth, from the medium-rare meat and steamed vegetables to Alfred’s neatly squared waffles, pasty as they tasted.

Jason remembered; eventually, when he went back to school, and got back into reading – how excited he was when Bruce came back from Wayne Enterprises one evening, presenting him with a book he could keep, for himself. In the foyer they’d been.

Right around where he was standing now—

And Alfred’s fine cuisine had extended from formal recipe books to fictional meals conjured up as if by magic with his old capable hands, like they had drawn the plates straight from the stories. On any and every day Alfred could manage it.

He _couldn’t_ —

Have any of it back—

Remember it—

Eventually, Jason was only just not _bounding_ down the staircase, long since not bothered by what unfathomable means Alfred was using to keep the place immaculate – because he had in fact picked up a few of them himself at this point – eager to see what meal the butler had pulled off the pages _this_ morning—

The thought struck him without warning, catching his breath in his throat – chicken.

Alfred had fed him chicken for breakfast on his last day in the manor.

_“‘Bet they don’t have chicken for breakfast at the White House’,”_ he’d quoted jokily, guessing as he did every morning what book his meal had come from – Harper Lee’s _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Alfred had smiled, which he did more often than Jason thought – now – they ever gave him credit for.

He’d washed his dishes and gone down to the cave after that meal. And he’d trained, and he’d studied.

Jason remembered the way he’d studied when he was a kid – Batman’s formulas and chemicals and solutions, case files, and theoretical manoeuvres he needed to know the make-up of before he could even _think_ about trying it in training. Jason had tried hard to impress, to always improve; to live up to the image of Robin Golden Boy Dick Grayson had left behind, but in the – three? – years he’d lived in this house, Jason wasn’t sure he ever had.

He’d thought he had, somewhere in the middle—

Somewhere around the time he could curl up on one of the wide window-sills in B’s office to read, and recite all the facts around their current case at once if prompted without missing a beat in his reading, and looking up only to catch the slightest wisp of a sly smile on his father’s – mentor’s – lips.

Around the time Dick would come by, and take the blame as instigator for their races down the railings, and he’d smile like a goofy moron when Jason did a successful flip off the highest beam, landing in a perfect roll, before he’d ruffle Jason’s hair and say something stupid like _“Nice,”_ and calling him _“Little Wing,”_ making Jason wonder for a moment why the hell he even disliked the guy in the first place—

Until he’d get caught in a bad argument with Bruce before the end of the day again, and Jason would be vaguely reminded of his parents, in a comparison where Dick had turned into his father and Bruce was his mother and things were just _better_ when Dick went back to Blüdhaven—

And Jason could pick up that slack Dick had left – as Bruce’s _son_ , if that’s what he’d really been – and _Robin_ , because Jason _was_ Robin now, and he _was_ Bruce’s son now. He tried.

He _had_.

—

—

Jason couldn’t breathe.

His chest heaved anxiously up and down as he sucked in air he could somehow not _feel_ breathing in, even as he _knew_ his lungs were being filled—

_“Good work, Jason.”_

That was—

There were too many memories here, and for _years_ he’d had no reason to look back on them – _that_ Jason was gone, that Jason was _dead_ , he didn’t _want_ —

He couldn’t— _have any of it back—_

_Live_ in that past; there was no future there—

_Here_ —

He had to—

He _couldn’t_ —

He’d—been kidding himself that he could—

He’d—

He’d rounded his back on the foyer and half-run, half-stumbled past Cassandra and whatever expression her face wore, whatever she thought she saw in him _now_ , and shuffled through the snow, tripped down the porch’s steps to land, hard, on his knees, bloodless naked fingers sinking into wet snow as he bent forward, gasping for air—

“I can’t breathe—” he mumbled. “Can’t breathe, I can’t—

“I can’t breathe—

“I can’t breathe—” even as he swallowed big gulps of air.

“I can’t breathe,” he drew his head down to his knees, pulled his arms, his freezing hands, in closer.

“I can’t breathe…”

He could feel the frown across his forehead.

Saw darkness he couldn’t recall invoking.

“…You breathe…fine,” Cassandra’s voice was soft, to his right, and her hand gentle on his back.

Jason shook his head, though at what he didn’t know. He _was_ breathing fine, the row of immaculate stitching across his chest stretching with every rise and fall evidence thereof despite the _hammering_ heart in his chest feeling like the _only_ thing inside doing any work to keep him alive.

_Too_ alive.

It was cold outside, in the air, and around his fingers, and through his soaking knees in the snow. And the light outside was only marginally better than it had been inside. And the breeze ghosted past him – them – touching only quickly.

Cassandra was rubbing circles across his back and Jason wondered if Dick had taught her that, or…had her assassin-father been affectionate?

Jason opened his eyes.

“Stop that,” he mumbled, if only half-heartedly, as he shrugged his shoulder and got languidly to his feet; Cassandra coming nimbly to her own, hand retreated without comment.

Jason ran his fingers through his hair, eyed her beyond the view of his raised arm. She was watching him, the way she watched everyone, he could only assume, and he knew he was already thinking it, _planning_ on doing it, and so she must already have seen it – read it on him the way she could read everyone. It was vexing, and made him feel incredibly vulnerable, the way she needed no more than a look to know what he meant to do, when, for years, he’d trained so hard to mask his intentions.

Since there was no point with her, though, and no way of pretending he didn’t know what he wanted to do now, he might as well just go ahead with it.

“Don’t follow me,” Jason said, much more intently than he might have before, as he dropped his hand and started off, pointedly not meeting her eyes and finding himself surprised when she didn’t immediately try to stop him. With his back fully to her, he rubbed his palms over aching, freezing fingers in an attempt to warm them some, before sticking his hands in his jacket pockets – all the while keeping an ear out for following footfalls, feeling an itch between his shoulder blades that must have been Cassandra’s stare. But apparently that’s as much as she did.

He assumed.

Right up to his sixth or seventh pace away, when a wet white mass landed with a hard _smack_ against the back of his neck—

Jason _yelped_ , and hissed, as the cold started slinking down the back of his shirt almost at once. He’d already stopped walking, arching his back at the invasive coolness of ice on his skin, tugging at the back of his shirt to force it to the ground quicker.

“ _What_ —” he started, “—the _hell_?” as he turned about, meaning to fix the girl with as intense a glare as he could conjure, only to be interrupted with another flurry of frost hurtled his way. Jason only just managed raising his arm in time to stop the projectile from colliding with his face.

“Would you quit throwing me with snow?!” he snapped, lowering his arm only slightly in case she had every intention of hitting him again.

But Cassandra, shorter though she was, stood several paces away, drawn up to her full height, shoulders squared and looking every inch the fear-inducing Black Bat of Gotham’s dark streets, even in her too-big sweater with its rolled-up sleeves slipping down her arms.

Jason swallowed, and dropped his arm carefully, finding himself on the receiving end of the glare he’d never quite gotten to mastering.

He scowled back, and might have said something if not for the need to protect his face again, Cassandra hurtling the snowball in her hand at him.

“ _Come_ —” she said, loud even though her voice _sounded_ small, and like it could never possess so much volume.

“ _In_ —”

“Hey—” Jason moved closer, batting at a second – or, fourth – snowball with his arm.

“— _side!_ ” Cassandra snapped, and Jason ducked beneath her next assault. Gathering as much snow as he could, as tightly as he could, in both hands, he threw it almost aimlessly at her as he came erect, missing, of course, when Cassandra dodged effortlessly.

“Are you _freaking_ kidding me?!” he exclaimed, frustrated, and angry all over again, “Did you not _see_ that?!” he asked, gesturing at the door behind her with one embarrassingly trembling hand.

He held it there, hovering mid-air.

Cassandra already had two more snowballs clenched in each hand, but he’d apparently gotten her attention enough she didn’t feel the need to pelt him with them – yet, at least.

“...I _can’t_ ,” Jason started, slowly, into the stretching silence between them, “Go back in there.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned in response, her fingers twitching tighter into the snow.

Jason threw his hands up, exasperated, “ _Seriously!_ I don’t know _why_ , okay? But that _damn_ house—” he pointed a set of fingers at it sharply, “And—”

It was all the memories. All of them just rushing back to him at once, and he couldn’t will them away like he’d been doing for years, trying to put little now-dead Jason Todd to rest and leave him buried. He’d managed, because he’d left Jason _inside_ that house, and going back in again would only wake him up further. It wasn’t fair.

“I just _can’t_!” he said at last, almost pleading and not knowing why he was pleading at _her_. Until a couple months ago he’d never even _seen_ Cassandra Cain face to face. They’d spoken all of _once_ , before, and part of Jason seethed at having to apparently explain himself to _anyone_ at all.

The larger part of him, though, felt _rotten_ , and guilty, and needed to make its case, and—

He’d come with reason, and _intention_ – he’d been _asked_ to come, and he’d said he would, and he’d _meant_ to keep that commitment. He’d meant to be brave. He’d meant to try.

But, entering the house had left him more afraid than he’d been before he’d set foot inside, when the only fear he’d had was never seeing his once-father again and telling him—

Whatever the hell Jason decided on once he got there.

Jason hadn’t expected it would be so hard to come through the door of his destination, however – hadn’t expected to be bombarded with a hoard of happy memories he’d thought he’d buried next to dying.

And now he was intent on breaking his promise because he couldn’t manage to deal with his past.

Perhaps if he’d had more unpleasant experiences in the manor it would have been easier to shrug it off, be dismissive of the entire building, regard it with a cool aloofness and flip it off when he went away – his spat, or heart-to-heart, or whatever the hell it would have been, with the old man settled and done.

But the manor had been his home. And entering it now reminded him of that home. Of what it had meant, and—

And could it still…?

Dick always being so _adamant_ that he was family.

Alfred had said the same thing. Replacement had damn well _invited_ him inside months ago.

…

Cassandra had commanded just a moment earlier.

Damian had tried to make him promise—

“I can’t,” Jason breathed, shaking his head, defeated. He dragged a hand across his face, frowning at the whiteness around his boots. Footsteps still lay haphazardly in the snow, from when he’d arrived; turning as if to go back, only to decide at last there _was_ no more going back.

Only, he’d been wrong. It seemed there was no more going forward.

He was just _here_ , now.

…

Gotham needed someone cruel to keep her in line. Jason was the only one who could be that and not lose his head over it, too. He kept _other_ families safe, the way he always had in red, and green, and yellow – he couldn’t have his own, too. Not when they didn’t want him as he was, anyway.

Neither of them deserved that mess.

…

…

Silence, so long he thought maybe Cassandra had left him alone, until a fistful’s worth of snow hit him in the leg.

Jason sighed.

“Will you _stop_ throwing shit at me?” he snarled, looking up sharply – and recoiling instantly when another handful hit him in the chest, “ _Cassandra_ —”

Presumably relieved of all her ammo, sweater-sleeves hiding her hands again, Cassandra stood thin-lipped, and frowning, her shoulders slumped—

“This is… _your_ fault,” she said, carefully, slowly, but… _firmly_.

Jason stared. “Like _hell_ it is,” he breathed, fingers curling into fists.

“ _You_ do this!” Cassandra continued, though, almost not giving him chance to finish and cutting off whatever else Jason might have tried to say. “ _Our_ family,” she went on, haltingly, swinging one hand half behind her, indicating the manor, “Is… _broken_. All it wants, is—you—everyone—here, and – but—” she shook her head, shoulders hunching, shifting her weight from one foot to another, “You want—” she squinted, and frowned, and shook her head, “I don’t, I can’t… _see_ – you don’t, know, either, I—” she had her hands up in front of her, fingers peeking out of the sleeves, reaching and clenching like she meant to grab hold of the words she was looking for in her palms.

“You could – I don’t— _fix_ , it?”

Jason shook his head slightly, not knowing what to say to her. It wasn’t…it wasn’t as _easy_ as that. It wasn’t as simple.

There was too much to “fix,” and not enough _time_ to wade through all of their issues, and too much pride to sweep it under a rug and hug and call it done—

“Cassandra,” Jason began, stepping forward, one hand raised, placating, but Cassandra shook her head again, expression crumbling—

“Then _leave!_ ” her voice cracked, and she dropped briefly to her haunches, grabbing at snow, tossing it half-heartedly at him. Again and again, “Don’t come— _back_!” Jason visibly started at the words, suddenly quite aware that no one had actually ever _chased him away_ before. They hadn’t _needed_ to, in so many words – he was the Bat’s big failure, his one mistake; an outlaw from the family, a son disowned for the way he could no longer condone and follow his father’s antiquated, ineffective code of moral justice.

They hadn’t said it, but the Bat had never needed to use words with his Robins – Jason had always just _known_. He could read the cowl almost better than the man’s actual face, and just as well as any book. Batman – _Bruce_ – had never _needed_ to _tell_ Jason to leave. He’d only needed to look at him, and he had, too many times.

Jason already _knew_ he wasn’t welcome, knew he _couldn’t_ be, but—

—inexplicably, _hearing_ the words _hurt_.

“You always c-come—back,” Cassandra sniffed, and breathed, and fixed him with a glare that made Jason feel like he was thirteen again and had done something _stupid_ , even though the corners of her eyes were glittering with moisture. “Always want to—but, you won’t, _help_ , so— _stay_ ,” she tossed more snow at him, hands jerking with frustration, the edges of her sleeves wet, “ _Away_!”

More snow.

Jason dropped his gaze, his hands still clenched tightly, but all the anger having rushed to the surface when she’d laid the blame at his feet, had evaporated in the interim – instead, he had his shoulders hunched, and his teeth grit, lips dry and his ears burning—

He didn’t know what to say.

…

He didn’t know how to _fix it_ —

When he couldn’t even enter the house—

When he couldn’t—

Cassandra had chucked a last chunk of ice in his direction and turned on her heel, rushing away, up the stairs, almost colliding with Tim, who Jason hadn’t even noticed sneaking up on them.

Jason watched, feeling intrusive, when the kid caught her by her shoulders, sounding concerned – Cassandra in the way, he couldn’t see Tim’s face, “Cass?”

Her short hair shifted this way and that when she shook her head, and curled herself out of Tim’s loose grip, slipping around him and disappearing across the threshold, Tim half-turned back to watch her go.

Jason couldn’t move. He hadn’t seen Tim since before the Joker had—

_Had what…?_

Jason hadn't bothered finding out, he didn’t _want_ to know.

Tim turned back to face him and Jason took a breath as he did, not sure what to expect on the younger boy’s face, but—

There was nothing.

No scars on his skin, or bruises, or marks, and – and Tim didn’t carry himself in any way suggesting he’d been beaten to a bloody pulp with a crowbar, made to _watch_ the timer that was counting down the last seconds of his life, before the big Bat could swoop in and save him with time to spare—

He _was_ thinner though, than when Jason had last seen him in civvies.

Jason blinked, drew himself up, carefully unclenching his fists as Tim took the steps down to meet him.

“What did you do?” Tim asked plainly, but there was no demand or accusation in his tone.

Jason scanned the kid’s face, looking for something he didn’t know – something just… _felt_ , wrong about the kid. “I—” he started all the same, perhaps intent on defending himself, when really…he had no idea how to explain. He’d screwed up again. That’s what it was. “Nothing,” he said firmly, snapped almost, pushing aside some of the hurt from Cassandra’s words, and the surprise, and uncertainty, doubt, _fear_ , false bravery, he’d been lugging around all day. He didn’t want another spat, especially, somehow, not with Tim – who’d been offering him juice, and inviting him in and getting his wrist twisted for his troubles; maybe if Jason had offered they share notes on the drug case after all, worked together, Joker wouldn’t have been able to—

He shook his head, angry. _No_.

“I was just leaving.”

“No,” Tim said, like he was answering a question. “You have to see Batsy, c’mon,” Jason frowned at the address, and Tim’s audacity, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and tugging as he made for the house—

Jason didn’t budge, caught him by the wrist, bending slightly forward so as to meet the kid’s eyes better, “ _Tim_.”

Tim looked at him briefly, dropped his gaze to Jason’s hand around his arm, and his own hand on Jason’s jacket before he released the fabric, and Jason let go of him as well. He met Jason’s eyes, brows pinched, lips twisted into a frown before, slowly, they curled into a grin instead.

“I forgot.”

Jason eyed the kid carefully, but he could never have predicted Tim’s actions—

He lunged at him, and Jason moved instinctively to defend himself against an attack that never came, because Tim was not _attacking_ him. Instead, the teenager had caught Jason about the waist, arms locked tight _in a_ _hug_ , his chin against Jason’s shoulder, and Jason—

Stood awkwardly with his mouth open and his arms hovering aimlessly in the air.

“Uh…” Jason stared at what he could see of the boy’s unruly mop of black hair from the corner of his eye, his hands moving to touch Tim’s unspeakably thin wrists at his back, intent on _prying_ him loose, but, for all that he’d definitely lost some muscle mass, the kid still had an intensely good grip – and he wasn’t about to just _let go_ , either. “Imitating Dickie, Pretender?” Jason scoffed, more than a little bite to it. Tim hardly noticed – if anything, he squeezed a little tighter. Jason didn’t really want to _yank_ him away, for fear of bruising the boy, but he could hardly stand much more of this either.

He caught sight of Cassandra in the doorway then, eyes red, jaw clenched, and he felt—

Guilty.

“You’re bruising my ribs, here, kid, c’mon,” he said at last, tugging on Tim’s sleeve. Tim let him go almost at once, with a gasp and a yelp, taking two steps back, onto the porch, holding his hands close to his chest, biting hard at his bottom lip.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to, um, do that – or, um—” Tim stumbled over his words, eyes on where he’d been latched onto Jason just now, making the older man shift his shoulders, uncomfortable under the intent gaze.

“ _Please_ ,” he scoffed, thus, playing it off as best he could. He straightened his jacket, brushed it off for something to do, “Like I bruise that easy,” he waved a hand dismissively. “What’s the matter, kid? Dickie skimping out on annual cuddles, so you’re jacking ’em wherever you can get away with it?”

Jason grinned at him, lopsided and snide, the way he was used to.

“Um,” Tim blinked, meeting Jason’s eyes, and then – he _giggled_. High-pitched, and in a way that made Jason’s insides quaver like they hadn’t in a _while_.

At once he was no longer grinning. Cassandra’s eyes had gone wide, Jason noticed. Tim, almost immediately, had slapped both hands over his mouth with a loud, probably not entirely painless, _smack_.

He was still giggling though, hiccupping as he tried in vain _not to_ , shoulders shaking, eyes shutting tight and opening, blinking, gathering tears on his lashes—

“Timothy?” Jason tried, half-raising a hand, taking one cautious step up, coming just a little bit closer—

“Timmy—” Cassandra had her arms around Tim from behind before Jason could do much more, her nimble fingers working at the kid’s own, trying to loosen the grip he had on his face – but Tim clutched tighter, his nails scratching at his pale cheeks, and the back of one hand, leaving lines slowly reddening.

“Let it out—” Jason heard Cassandra say, urgent if quiet. He stared, at a loss for what to do, or what was happening—

Tim rocked forward, back, tried turning his head, shifting his shoulders, lifting his elbows to shrug Cassandra off – she wouldn’t budge—

Tim was hunched forward, looking smaller to Jason than even Cassandra was, despite being the same height, Tim’s shoulders broader—

He blinked, hard and fast, tears trailing down his cheeks, colliding with his clawing fingers—

“ _Let_ it _out_ —” Cassandra hissed at him, digging her fingers in between Tim’s hands, but getting no further—

Tim was still _giggling_ , louder and faster, sounding more strangled every second shudder as he tried hard to suppress it. He sounded just like…like _Tim_ , but _unlike_ Tim, and Jason—

Couldn’t take it anymore.

“ _Timmy_ ,” he’d half-snapped, half-pled, before he knew he’d done it, and grabbed the kid by a shoulder with one hand – Tim gave a startled yell in between the giggles, hands springing free from his mouth, and his body hunching, dipping back, out of Cassandra’s hold—

Tim had spun around and run inside the manor, up the staircase before Jason had more than blinked, leaving them with another stuttered apology, and the echoes of his laughing, sobbing, choking voice bouncing off the walls as he fled.

Jason stood, dumbfounded, watching him go, only then becoming aware of the quickness of his breathing, the drumming of his heart—

“What the hell?” he mumbled at Cassandra, half-heartedly gesturing the stairs inside.

Her lips thinned, her gaze on the porch in thought, before she looked back to the staircase, and back around at Jason, her brown eyes sweeping over all of him before settling on his eyes, “He’s—” she looked away, the motion almost abrupt with the way she cut off as well, and Jason couldn’t help but think, with their earlier exchange, maybe she wasn’t about to tell him after all. But then—

“…Grateful…you know,” she shrugged one shoulder and frowned at the floor.

Jason frowned, too, not sure what she was on about now, “What?”

Cassandra glanced at him, unperturbed by his confusion, “Dick, told him…you found him, he’s…grateful,” she said, shortly.

Jason’s shoulders slumped, his still-hovering hands dropping to his sides. “Oh.” A beat passed. “But, what just – I mean, with the—” he brought his hands back up, unable to find the words, exactly, “He was—just—what _the hell_?” he asked again, voice tight, and when Cassandra regarded him, brows knit together, it was with a vague look of pity Jason wasn’t sure was for _him_ , or actually Tim. There was anger there, too, though – _that_ , Jason was sure was meant for him.

“The…Joker, he…” she started, slowly, and Jason swallowed. “You don’t, _want_ to know,” she shook her head, looked away again. “You didn’t _like_ the thought, before… _less_ , now.”

Jason had clenched his hands without realising.

“And, you don’t like…when I—” she looked back at him, just a shift of her eyes.

“ _Read me_ like a damn book—no, I don’t,” he snapped, glaring at her.

She ducked her head, fingers peeking out the sleeves of her over-sized sweater to play at the hems.

Jason loosened his fists; spoke more quietly, “You can’t help it…can you?”

Jason watched her suck in a breath through her nose, and let it out slowly. She shrugged.

“Dick said, once…” she lifted her head, but kept her eyes averted. “ _Language_ …is not something, you _un_ learn. When you’ve known it…forever. He can…no more _not_ understand a… _different_ language he hears, on… _accident_ , than _I_ can… _stop_ …” she met his eyes, “ _Seeing_. It’s… _hearing_ , to me. And I, wouldn’t _want_ , to. Stop. It makes me…” she squinted at nothing. “Better,” she said at last, nodding firmly.

Jason frowned, “Better? At what…?”

“Being Batman,” she replied simply, as though it should have been obvious.

An exasperated little growl crept up Jason’s throat before he could stop it, “Cassandra—” he started.

“Cass,” she interrupted, and he paused. “Call me, Cass.”

“Er—” he blinked at her, heat rising up his neck, touching his ears, the memory of her words from before still echoing in his head, and the redness about her eyes still too fresh from the tears he’d caused her—

What the hell was she seeing in him now that made her give him permission to call her by a nickname?

“Cass…sandra,” he mumbled awkwardly, looked away, paused again. “You shouldn’t be… ‘ _being Batman_ ’ – you’re a _kid_ , you should,” he waved a hand, “Be in school or something—”

“I’m _your_ age,” she interrupted plainly.

“Well, that’s just—” he scowled. She was short, and thin, and a dozen different kinds of lethal, he knew full well, but with her small frame he’d guessed her no older than Tim. Younger, even. Another teenager. Another _kid_ , fighting Batman’s war. “…Still,” he muttered lamely, shifting his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets, long since having forgotten the mild chill clinging to his fingers. He still couldn’t quite meet her eyes again, “You didn’t…ask for this.” _None of us did, not really. None of us knew_ what _we were asking for._

“No,” she agreed. “I was… _made_. For it,” not a hint of self-deprecation in the statement, and Jason had to look up, a little surprised. “It’s…what I am. And, if I can… _use_ that. To help,” she watched him, pointedly, and her eyes were pools of deep dark brown, pulling him under. “I know _you_ understand.”

Jason swallowed, and looked away, because he did. He _did_ understand. It’s the only reason any of them did anything – _helping_. Everyone but themselves.

“You don’t… _have_ to,” she said, earnestly, and her dark eyes were filled again with moisture when Jason dared to look up, “Do this alone.”

Jason flinched, when she raised her hand to him, palm up, the sleeve of her sweater pulled back far enough he could see all her fingers. But his breath was stuck in his throat again at the offer she was making—

He clenched his hands to stop his fingers from trembling, and shook his head as much as he could manage – feeling frozen again, one boot in the snow and his other foot on the nearest stair—

“I don’t know— _how_ , to fix it,” he whispered at her fingers. “I _can’t_ —” he breathed.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispered back, and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Just _try_ ,” she insisted, quietly—

Jason had ducked his head, could see her feet on the edge of the porch – she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and her bare toes seemed to be reaching toward the first step down like she was about to come even closer though he could already feel her breath against his forehead. Her toenails were bright blue.

“I’m… _with you_ ,” she said, and he shook his head at the sincerity in her tone, “ _Nothing_ …will happen to you – in there. We’re… _your family_ , Jason—”

“No—” he whispered.

“You promised,” she said, and he shook his head, eyes closed, until she finished, “ _Alfred_.”

The breath he sucked in at that both caught and didn’t, in his throat, making a noise close to sobbing—

He ducked his head farther, pressed his eyes closed tighter, and clenched his fingers around Cassandra’s strong wrists—

She was right.

He _had_ promised Alfred.

A short, frustrated sound escaped his throat, and when he opened his eyes his vision was hazy, unfocused—

“That was low,” he said to the ground, voice rough. He blinked, and _blinked_ , and let go of Cassandra’s wrists and pressed his palms against his eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, but didn’t release the grip on his jacket.

“No, you’re not,” he said, sharp and unforgiving when he finally straightened up.

She said nothing to the contrary, but stepped backwards, pulling him up the porch and closer to the threshold by his lapels, and he followed, trance-like, without protest.

He walked right up to the doorway, saw the staircase cast in shadow over her shoulder, and caught hold of her wrist again, stopping in his tracks.

He breathed in, deep, and her hold on his jacket loosened until it was nothing but the press of her fingertips against the fabric, feather-light on the outside of his chest, while his heart pounded again, harshly on the inside.

She watched him carefully, and he felt stripped to the bone, like her dark eyes were reflecting the depths of his soul she was looking right into—

“I’m scared,” he admitted, scarcely louder than a whisper, and unintentionally besides – not to mention, she’d probably already seen it, anyway—

She nodded, which came as no surprise, but said then, “So are we…” which did.

It was several loud heartbeats later, the silence seeming eternal between them, before Jason could manage to move again, stepping around her through the doorway, into the foyer proper—

—he breathed—

—chest heaving painfully as he looked around—

He felt dizzy—

Faint—

He was turned around a moment later, not sure whether he was about to go stumbling from the house a second time, or if he was going to spill his breakfast over Alfred’s nice clean floor, when—

Cassandra – Cass – was right in front of him, her fingers cool against his suddenly clammy face, her palms pressed against the line of his jaw—

“You’re… _alright_ ,” she insisted, and he blinked, tried to focus on her eyes swimming in front of him. “Jason—”

His fingers twitched – against the skin of her wrists though he didn’t remember reaching for them again—

His eyes were closed; his brow furrowed, his forehead, oddly, pressed against hers—

“ _Breathe_ ,” she kept whispering at him, and he did—in deep, and out slow, trying to keep it even—“Just breathe, little brother—”

He blinked his eyes open at that, pulled away slightly, and stared at her, surprised, “Huh.”

Jason’s gaze drifted—his heart no longer beating too frantically at its cage, but his thoughts catching up to his actions and wondering what the hell he was doing—to the doorway on his right, leading off to what he remembered as sort of a lounge, with a wall-length bookcase housing little actual _stories_ —

_“Then what’s the point of all these…?”_

_“Master Bruce often entertains guests here, young sir. As a prominent social figure and business icon, he has a certain image to maintain. These…assist.”_

_“That’s boring._

_“…And fake.”_

_“Such is a life of secrecy, Master Jason.”_

_“Well, it sucks, Al.”_

Cassandra was still watching him, reading him, though the expression on her face suggested she didn’t quite know _what_ she was seeing, which – Jason hardly knew what he was feeling himself.

Besides, he’d gotten distracted—

—for a fleeting moment Jason thought he could see himself, though the boy had no actual face he could make out, coming through the lounge’s doorway, looking up at the tall, black clad figure beside him – smiling, maybe – and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.

_“Good work, Jason.”_

For all the hard work he’d ever done, as Robin, as Jason, in this house, _trying_ always, to impress, and succeed, and live up to a name and what had now become a legacy he’d always been uncertain about deserving even as he felt a rush of pride donning the suit, donning the ability, the _capability_ , to _help_ people, and change their lives in a big way—

For all the bad bits that came with that, he’d had _family_ here, too.

This was _home_.

Every good bit of his existence that didn’t include his mom, had happened _here_. _Because_ of _here_.

And then Jason was no longer smiling up at Bruce, but was instead settled in the older man’s arms, still clad in his uniform, being _carried_ up the same stairs Jason stared at over his shoulder now, up to bed, feigning sleep – because Robin-training wouldn’t keep him ignorant of being lifted off the couch where he’d succumbed to slumber, despite being ill – because he could not, for the life of him, remember ever being carried and tucked into bed before, by his father. And it felt nice.

…

Jason breathed. Could feel the way his heart pounded, _beat_ after _beat_.

It was overwhelming, and strange – strangely comforting, strangely disconcerting – to, so suddenly, be reminded of this, when he hadn’t considered these memories in years.

Things between him and Bruce had been at a stalemate for so long, Jason had thought it would go on forever as is.

They’d end up old men on different sides of the city, just… _being_.

But now – that wouldn’t be the case, anymore. He’d been having, what he thought was undoubtedly _every_ version of whatever this conversation could be, with Bruce in his head since Dick had told him the truth about Bruce, and the old man’s condition, and practically begged him to come inside and settle things.

Sometimes Jason would tell him everything – everything he hated about him, everything he loved, everything he wished he could change, everything he’d learned from Bruce, and everything he hadn’t—

Sometimes Jason told him about dying.

Sometimes Jason told him about waking up in his coffin.

Sometimes Jason told him about the Lazarus Pit.

Sometimes Jason tried to make him understand.

Sometimes Bruce did. Sometimes he said it was alright, and he could accept Jason’s way of doing things. In fact – sometimes it wasn’t Tim who’d killed the Joker, but Bruce instead.

Jason’s mind couldn’t supply a method, exactly, because imagining Bruce wielding a gun, even for putting down that rabid psychopath, only made Jason’s stomach turn.

He’d realised, a long time after he’d tossed Batman his firearm in that old apartment so long ago, how much of a twisted act that had been.

Clowns and crowbars and fires and small, dark spaces, silences, and a host of other things he’d never thought of twice, before, had bothered him for the longest time after he’d come out of the grave – even out of the Pit, still.

He’d worked hard, trained hard to get over whatever he could, and move on, as much as he could.

But he’d realised, wondering how the thought hadn’t occurred to him before – or had it? Had it been intentional? – that Bruce, of course, hadn’t moved on after his parents were shot in front of his very young eyes.

He carried that image, that aversion to that kind of violence, and guns, with him. In hindsight, Jason thought he might have handled his return to Gotham a little better – with regards to the gun, at least.

Sometimes…Jason understood, too.

Sometimes things worked out. Sometimes…Bruce would hold him the way he had in one of those deeply locked-away memories.

Sometimes they shook hands.

Sometimes Bruce even smiled – properly.

Jason looked up, over Cassandra’s shoulder and saw his footprints in the snow again, the trail he’d left up to the steps…

What was he going to tell Bruce when he saw him now?

With the past clinging this tight to his insides, what sort of resentment and heartache and disapproval would that conjure inside him? How would he screw up this chance for—?

Jason didn’t know _what_ , but—

Eyes on the snow, feeling Cassandra’s fingers slowly fall away from his face, her wrists slipping from his grip, Jason _did_ know – there was _no_ going back, even as the memories seemed too much—

No more forever.

This was… _it_.

Jason _needed_ to do this. For himself. Maybe a little for Bruce, too, he didn’t know.

It was the right thing, regardless, and no matter how unsure he was, or how many happy memories ended up stumbling out of the dark, or how much _easier_ leaving seemed – he needed to be braver than that.

He could do this.

Jason didn’t know how long it took him to gather his wits, but Cassandra had silently let him take his time, and when, with a quick breath, he’d turned around to face the foyer again, she was no longer by herself—

“Master Jason,” the butler stood several steps up the staircase. A couple rungs further up stood Tim, looking placid and plain and much more like himself.

“Al,” Jason replied, quiet, nodding at the man.

“I’m pleased to see you could make it after all, sir,” Alfred said formally, making it sound as if he’d given Jason a choice, but, when the elder man had stood speaking in Jason’s less-than-stellar safe-house only the day before, removing a pair of bloody surgical gloves and clashing ridiculously with the décor, he’d made it _quite_ clear Jason was being all but _ordered_. There was no other way to take a friendly request from the butler.

Alfred only made requests straightforward and plainly when he knew they were absolutely pertinent, but his charges were being too stubborn or prideful to do what needed to be done.

Besides which, the old man had picked him apart, laid bare Jason’s own soul before him as if it had been Alfred’s, and Jason could not have denied a single thing he’d been told then even if he’d tried. He’d have only been lying.

Alfred had always known him best, and…if Jason owed anyone anything, it was Alfred, who didn’t deserve any of the hurt Jason must have caused all these years, and, while Jason couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – take it back, because he’d _meant_ it at the time, because he’d _wanted_ Bruce and Dick and Tim, to _hurt_ , he hadn’t ever meant the same for Alfred. He had a chance to make it right now, and he’d promised…There was no more going back.

He _did_ need to do this. For Alfred as much as for himself.

“If you’ll follow me, then, sir.”

Jason breathed, apprehensive at once, but.

Alfred waited with the perceived patience of a thousand resolute, battle-ready soldiers, and Jason set his jaw, determinedly making his way toward the stairs, very carefully _not_ jumping when Cassandra – _Cass_ – shut the door with a low _thud_ once he was properly inside.

 


	50. Loitering ch8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 21 Feb 2015.

_attempting bravery_

* * *

“A DEFINITION NOT FOUND  
IN THE DICTIONARY

Not leaving: an act of trust and love,  
often deciphered by children”

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

* * *

Jason focused on walking. Just walking, and walking – he could do that. He could walk.

He followed in Alfred and Tim’s wake, the younger boy giving Jason the shyest, most apologetic smile he’d ever seen on the kid’s face when Jason climbed the first few steps. Tim had turned around and led the way up before Jason could think to make a face of some kind – a _what the hell, kid?_ -kind of face was the only kind that came to mind though and, with Alfred’s eyes still on him before the butler turned as well, not making it had probably been best.

Vaguely he was aware of Cass climbing the stairs after him, always a step behind.

Jason had kept his eyes on Alfred, but it reminded him too much of the first time he’d ascended the staircase – watching the unfamiliar butler’s back as he was led to the room he’d be occupying. Opposite Dick’s, he discovered later.

Unbidden, he wondered – perhaps not for the first time – what Bruce had ended up doing with all his stuff, after he’d…died.

Given his school books back, probably – he thought he might have been in the middle of an assignment…writing a short story or something? He couldn’t remember.

Kept his storybooks, Jason thought, recalling Cass clutching his makeshift copy of _Beauty and the Beast_ (though that wasn’t the only little fairy tale in there) in her arms the last time he’d been here. Jason had been too shy to ask for books when he’d first moved in, not used to people buying him things anymore besides, but, he suddenly had all the paper he could ever want, and means for retyping and printing the stories he liked – so he could return the library books he’d, well, _stolen_.

Where had Alfred put Jason’s—“collection,” the butler had called it—?

In addition to the fairy tales, there had been a bunch of classics he’d brought along from his – and, technically, his mom’s – old apartment, rewritten in his own hand, bound between cardboard covers filled front to back with doodles – _Huckleberry Finn_ , _Tom Sawyer_ , _Oliver Twist_ , _The Prince and the Pauper_ …

Bruce had bought him every one of those and then some, but he’d kept his own makeshift books. As a reminder, maybe. Of where he’d come from? Or, how things had been before?

Of the comfort those stories had brought him when he’d been alone, and waiting—

For his father to sober up.

For his mother to wake up.

For Bruce—

Not even reading, just holding onto something he _knew_ , inside and out, seated on the staircase – before he’d been recruited as Robin, before he’d started training, when all he’d been offered was a home and safety, and some sort of family—

But he knew whose family he was a part of. _Batman’s_. And the Dark Knight’s duty kept him out at night, and Jason, too used to waiting up for people to come home, and too wary to sleep in unfamiliar surroundings, had spent many a night on the steps of this staircase, in the dark; _waiting_.

…

Jason didn’t know he’d stopped walking until Cassandra moved in his peripheral vision, her hand resting lightly at the crook of his elbow. Jason shifted his arm and her hand fell away – he looked up, away from the view of the step—

Alfred, and Tim beyond him, had stopped walking as well, a mere handful of stairs from the top.

Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, and Jason swallowed reflexively, ducked his head, feeling silly for getting so caught up in the past again—

“…Alright, Jason?” Alfred asked, quietly, and the absence of “Master” meant more than its presence would have, now.

Jason breathed, quick and hard, nodded and looked up – too fast, so he had to look away again—

He shook his head.

“Al…” he all but whispered, feeling incredibly small and _guilty_ for his hesitation. “Do I…” he glanced back up, Alfred looking impossibly tall somehow. “Do I _have_ to, I mean, does he even, _really_ —” Jason cut off, ducked his head again and buried his face in his hands with a groan. What was he doing? What the _hell_ was he doing? There was no getting out of this – there was no making up excuses, or hesitating—

He’d come this far. He—

He _needed_ to do this. He _would_.

Alfred squeezed his shoulder, but it was Tim who spoke.

“He _wants_ to see you, Jason. Honest, he does.”

Jason peered up at the kid, every inch a determined Red Robin by the firm set of his jaw, his tightly clenched fists at his side—

_What had the Joker done to you, Tim…?_

“So, come on. Please?”

“Perhaps I’d been too callous, sir,” Alfred said, almost solemnly – or about as close as the proper butler would ever show, Jason thought. “Somewhat…selfish of me. I cannot force you any further if you’d rather not.”

Jason barked a laugh, some of the tension squeezing at his soul slipping with the shake of his shoulders, “Are you kidding, Al? If anyone can force me, it’s you…”

Jason didn’t miss the mildly satisfied smile ghosting across Alfred’s lips for the quickest of seconds, before the butler’s expression turned softer, “Indeed, sir,” he allowed. “But in my haste to…reconcile the situation, shall we say? I fear I may not have considered the consequences…to you, as closely as I should have, sir.”

Jason half-smiled, half-laughed, and shook his head, “No, Al, I…” he glanced back, at Cass, her lips quirked. “I want to,” he mumbled. “I’m…being an ass, don’t—mind me. …Sorry,” he added belatedly, for the swear as much as anything else.

Alfred smiled. “Very well, sir,” and Jason’s shoulder received another gentle squeeze before Alfred’s hand was gone. Jason thought that would be it, but the butler’s forefinger briefly tapped at his chest, “Good?” he asked, very quietly. Jason nodded, and Alfred returned the gesture, satisfied, before continuing his trek upwards.

Jason met eyes with Tim, and the kid smiled at him, gave him a plainly satisfied nod, and followed Alfred’s lead without a word.

Jason made an effort not to bristle, the ever-familiar annoyance Tim invoked creeping slowly to the surface – now wasn’t the time. Besides, Tim was a _kid_ , and for all that he had _replaced_ Jason, he didn’t deserve anything that had happened recently. The Joker was not a curse Jason had ever wished upon his replacement no matter how much he’d hated him—or, the _thought_ of him, really. _Robin_ should have ended with Jason, and the Bat should’ve kept his shit together better. Or spilled the Joker’s guts very literally.

Absently, Jason shook his head, trudged up the staircase with Cass still at his back, into a hauntingly familiar corridor.

_Years_ , and nothing had changed.

Jason crossed his arms tight over his chest and tried not to stare too long at anything – doors or windows, or paintings, or the carpet under his feet.

Deeper into the house Alfred led them, the silence of the place hanging thick in the air, obnoxiously reminding Jason of the silence he’d abruptly woken up to upon his resurrection.

There had been no scream, no gasp, no sudden inhale of life-giving breath—he’d been asleep, and then, simply, awake, as if he had gone to bed in his coffin of his own accord.

It had been dark, at first, the same way it always was when he woke in the middle of the night, for whatever reason.

Aware he hadn’t been woken by a nightmare, Jason may have rolled over and gone back to sleep, content, if his Bat-training hadn’t alerted him to several things – this wasn’t his bed, for one. He was dressed in a suit, for another, and, it was too quiet.

The manor was _never_ that quiet at night. It was old, and it groaned and sighed and creaked and settled, and even when it seemed to quiet down there was still noise – a breeze brushing around the corners outside, trees rustling in the wind, and the bats, of course. They squeaked and screeched and flapped their wings in a chorus Jason could recognise easily if he just stopped to listen.

He had, and hadn’t heard anything.

It had been quiet then as it was now, none of them breathing loudly, their footsteps like feathers ghosting over the carpet. Perfectly trained.

When Jason’s vision had become accustomed to the dark, he’d already run his hands across the wooden surface of the box – the _coffin_ , he realised – and then he could practically _see_ the inside of the thing, holding him hostage. A flood of memory had crashed into him – Joker with a crowbar, laughing as he worked Jason’s flesh into a collage of black and red, and blue; the painfully slow _tick-tick_ of the bomb counting down what he’d believed at the time were the last seconds of his life, coming up too quickly on _zero_ , Jason counting along in his head involuntarily after he’d looked away—

Had it all been a trick, he’d wondered – had the bomb been a dud? Had Jason only been blacked out instead? Did Joker throw him in a coffin to scare him, for laughs?

The silence had ticked on, another countdown in Jason’s head, before he’d really taken it in – the lack of noise; he was _buried alive_.

He’d started _screaming_ then, panic taking hold before he could think to stop it, and—

—

—Jason swept his fingers through his hair, nails hard against his scalp, _tugged_ before letting go. He shouldn’t be thinking of that—

He was aware, dimly, that he’d stopped walking.

If only it wasn’t so _quiet_. Jason was scared he’d abruptly start screaming just to drown out the silence—

“Snowing, again,” Jason started at Cassandra’s voice right next to him; she’d stopped as well.

“What?” he said lamely, and followed her gaze to a window in the room on their left, where white flakes of snow were visible, descending in a whimsical flurry. “Oh. Yeah…” his voice sounded hoarse, as if he _had_ been screaming after all.

“Alfred’s, getting away from us,” Cass said, nudging his arm with her elbow and pointing ahead, to where Alfred and Tim had paused at the corner.

“Yeah…” Jason mumbled, giving them a quick glance, but his gaze turned back to the room with the window – Dickie’s room, he realised abruptly, even though nothing of what he could see inside looked like Dick’s anymore, but—

—that meant—

Cass pushed gently at his arm and Jason started down the hallway again, looking round at the door on their right even as he went—

His door.

Or, what _had been_ his door.

Always open just the tiniest bit so he could listen – to Bruce and Dick, when the latter came over and their current argument either started or somehow ended outside the Batcave. Jason would shut the door as quick and quietly as he could before they appeared in the hallway outside, not wanting either of them to know he’d been eavesdropping. Sometimes, he’d gotten the feeling they knew anyway – almost especially whenever Dick would come knocking, grinning in a reassuring way and talking like he hadn’t just been yelling at Jason’s father.

He’d try to be nice, Jason remembered, but…Jason would glare and wish him away, and then feel bad about it when Dick _did_ leave and Bruce turned quiet and sulked over case-files and _work_ – no time for Jason, suddenly, and then he’d just feel angry at Dick all over again.

Jason’s door was closed, now, even as he could almost see himself peeking out, as if in a dream.

Sometimes, moments few and far between, he’d let Dick talk him into things – cartwheels down the hall, flipping contests he could never manage to win, swinging from the chandelier, jumping on Bruce’s bed until the springs creaked when he was being difficult over something Jason had done, or hadn’t done, on patrol—

Sometimes, moments with Dick were happy. Not happy enough for them to have ever been _close_. Not happy enough that Jason had ever wanted to share Dick with Bruce, either. Jason been at his happiest when it had been only he and Bruce, working together in the field, or outside of their uniforms post-patrol, getting stitched-up and sipping at hot chocolate—

He’d been Jason’s father. Bruce had proven it, treated him differently – _better_ – than his real father ever had; always had his back, gave him advice, and trusted him, and—

Even as Jason could lose his temper, and Bruce never quite condoned Jason’s fervent belief that Gotham’s worst bastards got what they deserved when he let his anger get the better of him in a fight. Bruce still treated him better, even if his behaviour earned him a scolding, or a disapproving look and the silent-treatment, or saddling Jason with monitor duty so he could calm down and get his act together again. Which was why he’d been in the cave the night he’d found out about his biological mother and was able to subsequently take the fatal trip to see her without Batman’s permission.

Benched. It wouldn’t have been permanent. He’d been benched before. Only, on that particular occasion, it had seemed like a heavier weight.

And, if he hadn’t been, he never would’ve died—

Their procession came to a stop just then, Jason behind Alfred, aware of Tim on his one side and Cass just behind him. He’d been eyeing the all too familiar wooden door with apprehension since they’d rounded the corner. Bruce was just beyond it.

Jason hadn’t seen him for months – Batman had become scarcer the last while and Jason could only assume he wasn’t fit for patrol anymore. Probably, the next time the Dark Knight appeared in Gotham it would be Dickiebird underneath the cowl. Or—

—Cassandra?

Was that what she’d meant…?

Alfred stepped aside, “Here we are, sir,” he announced, curling his old, calloused fingers around the doorknob, and Jason—

Just _breathed_.


	51. nail polish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forget what I named this originally *shrug*  
> (contains adorbs baby!Jay)
> 
> 6 March 2015.

Jason’s little nose scrunches up in the most adorable way, his blue-green eyes squinting, and Cass wonders what it is she has to do to get him to make that face when he’s turned back to normal.

At the moment, Jason is four, sitting on the edge of the sofa, regarding her variety of nail polish on the coffee table in earnest.

Cass sits next to him with her feet up, cotton between her toes and her back to the armrest, caught up in all the little intricate details of his four-year-old being – all the little thoughts and uncertainties and curiosities she can see rippling through him even though all he’s doing is studying colours.

She doesn’t even notice Tim until he’s right beside her, dumping a stack of books and his laptop on the table with a huff, “Okay. I’ve got every de-aging case I could find. And then some,” he wiggles a flash drive between two fingers. “And I got Zatanna to call me back. With any luck we can fix this _before_ Bruce or Alfred get home,” he grins, satisfied, first at her, but she pays him no mind, and then at Jason, to which his shoulders slump and his smile becomes more sincere.

“Aw,” he says, almost mournfully. “Can’t we just keep him like this—?” he’d hardly gotten the entire question out, though, or Cass had punched him in the leg.

“ _No_ ,” she says firmly, offering him a glare. “I can’t go to prom with a four year old!” and she gestures emphatically at the chubby-cheeked toddler, who’s taken to holding his chin with one hand and picking up bottles for better inspection with the other.

“ _Technically_ , he’s four _and a half_ ,” Tim quips, and chuckles under his breath when Cass shoots him a deadpan look. “Okay, fine, but he’s a much cuter date this way, just so you know.”

“M’not cute!”

Cass hides a snicker behind one hand and Tim blinks at his somehow-younger older brother, pouting petulantly with his tiny arms crossed. He tries hard not to grin at Jason’s face and look appropriately cowed instead, because who knows what the man might remember once he’s back to normal and Tim’s not sure he wants to deal with the revenge of Jason Todd for calling him cute.

“Course not,” he agrees easily, dropping to his knees beside the table and flipping open the laptop, “You’re _adorable_ ,” he mumbles where the kid can’t see his smirk.

“Jason,” Cass says, and waves one hand a little to catch the still-scowling boy’s attention. Tim is looking over again, because he finds it so very amusing to see his usually wise-cracking brother embarrassed. And Jason is, when he looks over at Cassandra like he’d all but forgotten she was there and now can’t believe she’s talking to him.

His eyes go wide as saucers and his face turns cherry red, and he stares for all but a few seconds before he ducks his head and brings his shoulders up defensively, at the same time thrusting out one arm – an awful orange-yellow colour of polish in his hand. “This one,” he mumbles.

Tim bites his lip not to laugh, thinking Jason probably hadn’t thought his choice all the way through. Cass can tell he didn’t, but she supposes it’s too late now, so she offers him a small smile and makes to take the bottle. Jason snatches it back at the last second though, grabbing for the light blue one on the table and stuffing that in her hand with a quick, “No, this one!” instead.

He’s got his legs up and his face buried in his crossed arms a moment later, nothing but his bright red ears sticking out.

“Okay,” Cass says into the following silence, her smile uncontainable. “Thanks…” and she dutifully opens the cap and starts applying the colour to her toes. It looks nice.

Tim shakes his head, though he’s still grinning, and pops the flash drive into his laptop.

It’s a little while before Jason peeks out from behind his arms to watch Cass working on her toes, only to duck his head back down when she looks up at him.

Tim’s not wrong, she decides, amused. Jason, is _adorable_.


	52. shapeshifter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read this post on tumblr:  
>  _shape shifting is the best super power because you can have any haircut any time you want, you can turn into a hotter version of yourself, you can turn into a dragon, you can turn into a robot, you can turn into a shambling mound of abstract shapes and sulk outside your estranged father’s house at night while chanting ominously about his sins,_  
>  the original post is here: http://blinkpen.tumblr.com/post/122848851292/shapeshifting-is-the-best-super-power-because-you  
> and I felt Inspired.
> 
> Not enough to finish it all in one day, though, because it was already late and I needed to sleep. So, when I came back for the rest the next day, I was suddenly writing in an entirely different tense. I have never bothered to fix it, and I don't plan to right now. Meh.
> 
> 8/9 Aug 2015.

Bruce passed through the grandfather clock in his study and trudged down the steps to the Batcave at a glacial pace, rubbing at sore eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

He’d only just returned home from a too-long business trip spent clothed in the persona of Brucie Wayne, which, while it did afford him the opportunity nowadays to gush a little and mostly boast about his children and their successes as he was expected to do – and secretly, or not so secretly enjoyed – it was a tiresome half-act amongst the world’s upper-crust, judgemental riches nonetheless.

He was happy to be home.

He’d be happy to go back to patrolling as well, though it was getting to be too early for that. The sun would be on the rise in a couple of hours, and by this time in general, he and the kids were usually headed home.

Bruce had no doubt, thus, that this was where he would find his three sons and daughter – coming in from what he could only hope had been a relatively quiet patrol, all of them home safe now and none the worse for wear – which was more the reason he was heading for the cave than any desire to squeeze in an hour or two’s patrol before sunrise himself.

There was chatter from the computer console, Bruce could hear when he at last reached the foot of the stairs, and when he looked up, focusing his tired eyes, he could see Tim in his chair, still in uniform. Cass sat on the desk next to the keyboard, legs swinging, and Dick and Damian were the ones speaking; only, as Bruce approached, it wasn’t _their_ voices that caught his attention.

Instead, there was a somewhat indistinct mutter coming from—

Bruce frowned, and concentrated on the muffled, incoherent speech, trying to determine—

The…case…?

He turned, but – there was no one there.

It was, as always, only the spare uniform of his once second son, suspended in its glass case as if worn by a rigid, invisible body standing at attention.

_My soldier._

_My fault._

_“A good soldier. A good ‘soldier.’ A good_ soldier.”

Bruce blinked, startled when the indistinguishable muttering suddenly became words in his ears.

But, still – _where_ was it—?

_“Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed me. Never avenged me. Never avenged me. Never-never-never—”_

Bruce glanced all around, lost in his head, entranced by the voice – _Jason’s_ voice – as he tried desperately to find where the young man was hiding, or—

Or, was this all in Bruce’s head?

Was he hallucinating his once dead son’s voice in his head? Was this the fatigue getting to him?

Or, something _else_? Why would it _now_ , suddenly—?

_“Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed. Never avenged me. You let the clown live.”_

_What_ was going _on_ —?

“ _Father_!” Damian’s voice cut in through Jason’s, all but startling Bruce out of his stupor.

He released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, hands coming to rest on his youngest’s small shoulders. “Damian…” he half-sighed. “I apologize, I was—distracted.”

“ _Tt_ ,” Damian rolled his eyes.

“You’re not going mad, B,” Tim, who’d spun the chair around, said, too loudly. “We hear him, too.”

“Ear buds, Timmy,” Dick admonished, pointing, at the same time that Cass reached over from behind Tim to pop one ear bud out of his ear.

“ _Oh_ ,” Tim said, taking the one from Cass and removing the other, “Heh, right. Sorry…”

Bruce only frowned harder.

“ _Honestly_ , Father,” Damian started, sounding exasperated and annoyed as he shrugged Bruce’s still-lingering hands from his shoulders. “Are you _blind_?”

Bruce looked down at him, and Damian, scowling, arms crossed, tilted his head in the direction of the case. “Look _again_.”

Bruce spared his other three children a brief glance, Jason’s voice distinct in his ears, never stopping, before he, if somewhat cautiously, looked back over at the case. “I don’t—” he started, feeling somewhat ridiculous and— _exposed_ —with all his children’s eyes on _him_ as he looked to _that_ – but then, he _did_ see it.

Nothing in the case or on it, but rather—next to it, seemingly facing it.

Like boulders, the same grey as the rest of the cave floor and walls, only, they weren’t rocks, they hardly seemed _solid_ in fact, and the longer he looked at them the less they even seemed _still_.

They were just _shapes_.

A collection of grey, indiscriminate _shapes_ , falling over and bumping into each other, moving one moment and still, almost unnoticeable the next, moving in a little cluster, all of them a heap barely reaching Damian’s height.

Moreover, and this was the most important and most _alarming_ thing – Jason’s voice appeared to be coming _from the mound of shapes_.

_“Let the clown live-live-live. Betrayed me. Never avenged me. Never-never-never—”_

“ _What_ ,” Bruce started, only somewhat unintentionally sounding like The Batman, “ _Exactly_ , am I looking at?”

“It’s Jason…”

“Todd.”

“Jason.”

“Hm-hm.”

A beat passed – _“Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed—”_ – before Bruce breathed – in, deeply, and exhaled in a huff, turning back to his children, all of whom stood watching him with varying expressions of apprehension.

“Say that again,” he said slowly, “Use, _smaller_ words, this time.”

“Uhhhhh...” Dick put a finger to his chin, his other hand on his hip, looking like he was genuinely thinking of smaller words. “It’s… _Jason_.”

“The one who _failed_.”

“Jason ‘once-a-Robin-always-an-ass’ Todd?”

Cassandra gestured with her hands, forming vague shapes, “Your son.”

“ _Tt_.”

Bruce couldn’t tell if they were being serious or if this entire situation was just an awful prank. Had they gotten him on April Fools?

He didn’t remember.

“Just, _explain_ how this happened,” he instructed, and at once four people opened their mouths to reply. Bruce threw up a halting hand, “Only _one_ speak.”

“Todd was being an imbecile!” Damian declared at once.

“Dami!” Dick rebuked short on his heels, coming to stand by his youngest brother, dropping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “That’s not—…technically _untrue_ ,” Damian smirked. “But let’s not point any fingers,” Dick intoned meaningfully, glancing sideways in the direction of the case, and…Jason, apparently. A bundle of shapes.

Bruce’s estranged son was a bundle of shapes.

_Well_.

_“Died-died-died—didn’t die. You let the clown live.”_

“There was a magician in town while you were away,” Tim started up, speaking quickly, when a momentary silence brought Jason’s voice back to their ears. “He and Jason apparently fought, and then there was a spell and now Jason is—” Tim paused, half-gesturing; Jason’s clumsy, chanting grey form speaking for itself.

“Shapes,” Bruce filled in the word anyway, brows furrowing even more.

“Shape _shifter_ ,” Cass corrected.

“What?”

“At first he changed in normal ways, and, at will,” Dick began. “Different hairstyles, different hair colours – blonde, redhead, he had a little white streak in his fringe, and a really obnoxiously chiselled jaw at one point—” Dick gestured at his own chin with a thumb and forefinger, lips pursed, when Tim apparently decided it was time to cut in—

“But then he started changing into _other_ things—”

“A _dragon_ ,” Damian supplied. “Which would have been _somewhat_ impressive if he wasn’t such a _tiny_ thing that couldn’t breathe fire or fly – he just _sat there_ , flopping his little wings, _fwap-fwap_ ,” Damian gestured with his hands, scowling.

“You thought he was cute,” Cassandra said, having come up next to her littlest brother, to poke him in the arm.

“I did _no such thing_!” Damian snapped at once, hands fisted and ears tinged pink.

“Wanted to keep him. As a pet.”

“ _Quiet_ , Cain!”

“The robot he turned into next was…interesting,” Tim went on, before Bruce could give into his impatience and demand someone finish explaining. “But it was around there things went a little……haywire.”

Dick snickered, briefly, “But, we’re figuring it out. The magician said the spell would wear off eventually, the timeframe for it depending on the person,” he shrugged. “Nothing else to do but wait it out, apparently. He seemed sincere enough—”

“After some persuasion,” Damian mumbled.

“But just in case, we’ve been researching every known account of shape shifting caused by magic, and/or superpowers, permanent and otherwise. We’ll fix him if it comes to that,” Dick squeezed Damian’s shoulder; more to comfort himself than the younger kid, Bruce knew.

_“You let the clown live-live-live.”_

“He can’t…change back of his own volition?”

Tim shook his head, “That doesn’t seem to be the case. After the dragon, when he started shifting into things that weren’t _human_ anymore, it seemed like he...”

“Got lost,” Cass said, solemn.

“Yeah…he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on at all. He’s stuck on…just the one thing.”

“He says the same things over and over,” Dick added quietly, the atmosphere in the cave having noticeably turned sombre. “Just stays there in the corner…by the _case_ ,” a tiny hint of disapproval in Dick’s tone at the word, that, Bruce knew, wasn’t for Jason, but rather for _him_. “Swears at you sometimes.”

“Hm.”

_“Never-never-never—”_

“Do you have any reason to suspect your magician might have been lying – about the spell wearing off?”

“Um,” the kids exchanged glances, before the boys collectively turned to Cass.

She gave Bruce a _look_ , and he knew she knew what his intentions were depending on that answer.

“No.”

“Are you _certain_?” he asked pointedly, earning another distinct look.

“ _Yes_ ,” she said, firmly.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. The backs of his eyes were burning with fatigue and—something else.

“Get some rest then. You have things to do in the morning.”

None of them moved, however.

“We can all stay, Bruce, really. We don’t mind,” Dick said, and there was no tongue-click from Damian, who had his eyes firmly fixed on the floor and his arms crossed again.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, “It’s no bother,” even as his fist clenched tighter round his ear buds.

Cassie gave him a small smile, “Come,” she ordered, grabbing Tim by the elbow and reaching for Dick’s free hand. “Sleep-time. Now,” she tugged. “Everyone – in Bruce’s bed. The biggest one.”

Dick exhaled a laugh, “Yeah, okay. C’mon, Little D,” he was already moving, half-guiding Damian along with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but the entire procession halted when Damian stopped short not a full two paces along.

His arms tightened against his chest for only a moment, before he uncrossed them and spun back towards Bruce, determined, “ _Father_ —” but he came up short, lips left parted to say something more he was plainly uncertain of.

Bruce dropped to one knee in front of him, Dick’s hand discreetly slipping from the boy’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Damian,” Bruce said quietly, and Damian snapped his mouth shut. “I’m happy to be home, son. Get some rest, chum – please. We can _talk_ in the morning.”

Damian watched him a moment longer, his blue eyes flitting this way and that across Bruce’s face. “Yes, Father,” he answered at last, posture relaxing. “I’m—it’s good to see you, as well,” and, swift as his reflexes would allow, Damian threw his arms round Bruce’s neck, squeezed and let go in what felt like only a second – far too fast for Bruce to properly react, at least – “Good-night,” before he’d sprinted past his siblings, heading for the stairs.

“ _Race!_ ” Cassandra announced at once, and spun on her heel, running off.

“What—hey! That’s cheating!” Tim accused, following quickly in her wake.

Dick was grinning at their retreating forms, though, as Bruce got up. His eldest boy turned round to him, his smile somewhat diminished. Dick closed the gap between them without a word, to give Bruce a more proper hug, “He’ll be fine,” he said, as he pulled back. “Pissed to see you, probably,” he added with a rue smile and a shrug, glancing at the case. “But mostly fine.”

Bruce nodded in lieu of an answer, unconvinced that “thank you” was enough of a reply.

Dick seemed to know what he meant anyway, for he grinned, nodded back, and ran off after his siblings, “No fair, guys – you started without me!”

“Your uniform, Master Tim,” Alfred’s voice drifted from the top of the stairs as Bruce turned his back on the scene, turning once again to the case instead.

He stepped closer, somewhat cautious, not entirely certain how Jason in all his shifting, shaped glory would react to him – if he might be just the thing to snap his son from his uncomprehending state.

“Jason…?” Bruce whispered, when he was a mere pace away, but—

There was no reaction apart from the norm—

_“Betrayed me. Betrayed me. Betrayed me.”_

Sighing, forlorn, Bruce sunk to the cave floor, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.

“Kiddo? Can you hear me…?”

_“Never avenged me,”_ the shape seemed to _hiss_ , and shift, and Bruce felt inexplicably as if it – as if _Jason_ – had turned from the case to face him directly, even though there was no discernable face to his form that could prove it.

_“Never-never-never,”_ his chant continued.

“I’ll just…sit here with you, then,” Bruce said quietly. “Until you feel better.”

_“Betrayed me. Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed—_

_“You let the clown live!”_

* * *

Bruce’s eyes droop for a moment, and he thinks, if fleetingly, that he might just rest them a little, at last. There’s no fear of falling asleep, at least – not with his second son’s continued chanting in his ears, in his head, echoing around his insides—

_“Betrayed me. Betrayed me. Betrayed me.”_

In fact, it’s because the chant stops unexpectedly, leaving the cave stunningly silent, that Bruce’s eyes snap open again at once, because—

What’s happened now?

Has he shifted into something else again—?

And—

_Oh_. Oh no.

He has.

Bruce blinks, as if to clear his vision, disbelief plain in his expression, and he’s not quick enough to hide it before his eyes meet Jason’s – back to their usual blue-green mix even as they no longer reflect all the usual angry hurt Bruce has come to associate with them. Because…Jason’s eyes have smoother contours, less angry lines, brows knit together in confusion instead of rage, and, freckles all over his nose and cheeks like he’d spent all day in the sun—

“What?” Jason asks, from where he lies on the cave floor curled into a ball, like he honestly doesn’t know, and his voice cracks a little like he hasn’t used it in forever, or, maybe, like he’s used it too much—

Bruce means to say something, but Jason’s the one blinking now, like he finally remembers, and he’s upright before Bruce can react, looking at his hands and the green gauntlets he wears, his expression—

Stunned. And…terrified.

“Jason—”

“No!” Jason snaps, jumping to his feet and tugging at his bright yellow cape all at the same time, “No, I’m not _this_ anymore!” he’s frantic, and turning, and pulling at his gauntlets, and Bruce—

Has hardly been breathing, is half on his haunches and hesitating – does he grab the kid—the _kid_ , what the _hell_?—by his shoulders and force him to calm down? Does he _say_ something – _what_ even?

For all that he looks thirteen, it’s still _Jason_ – grown, once-dead, resurrected, vengeful Jason, and Bruce…Bruce has never known how to handle _him_.

“ _Jason_ ,” Bruce tries again, cutting into the boy’s hissed curses at his irremovable gauntlets and boots, the swinging cape—

Jason finally looks at him again, face furious, throwing his cape aside as he swipes one hand defiantly through the air, “ _This_ isn’t _me_ anymore!” he hisses, sounds more like himself even as his voice is the same half-forgotten echo Bruce sometimes hears in his dreams – when he dreams of all the mistakes he made and the things he regrets.

Jason scowls at Bruce just long enough for the older vigilante to gather his wits and remind himself he meant to say something placating, but then Jason has turned his head, looked away, and—

Bruce watches his son’s expression change, at first, anger and defiance back into the same shock and fear as when he saw he was Robin, and then—

The uniform he wears is tattered, and bloodied, frayed and burnt round the edges, his cape torn and half his mask missing – a twisted reflection of the suit in the case Jason’s staring at.

Jason’s gotten taller, his shoulders broader, in the almost-second it took Bruce to blink, and – there are already bruises blossoming beneath the tears in his uniform, blood trailing down his arms and legs, matted in his hair, and, his breathing has gone ragged, his knees weak—

“S’not’me,” he mumbles, wide-eyed, at the case, when he slumps to the ground and, Bruce has already moved to catch him—

—only, it’s not a fifteen year old, battered and bruised teenager he wraps his arms around, but his twenty-one year old son instead, the young man’s head lolling to the side, resting against Bruce’s shoulder as he mumbles one last time, “It’s not me…”

Bruce has his arm round Jason’s shoulders, his other hand on his son’s arm, gripping tight, “Jason?”

But Jason’s eyes have fallen shut, and the slow, rhythmic up-and-down of his chest suggest he’s fallen right asleep – likely a result of all the magic he’s been exposed to and all the shifting he’s done, not to mention how long he’d been in one incomprehensible form, muttering non-stop.

Bruce puts two fingers to his pulse anyway.

There are tears blurring the edges of his vision and Bruce can still feel his heart hammering in his ribcage, the image of his beaten, broken son, the _corpse_ he’d found in a warehouse, burned into his mind’s eye anew.

Bruce lets out a shaky breath, shoulder’s slumping and his grip on Jason tightening.

“You’re right, chum…” he whispers. “You’re not…” he looks up, barely moving his head, to catch sight of the case and Jason’s old suit, “That anymore…you’re…someone else entirely, and I…” he trails off, uncertain. When he speaks again a moment later, it’s to address the butler he’s well aware of, in as composed a manner as on any other day, “Make up a room for him, Alfred. We should keep an eye on him, in case this…happens again.”

“ _Indeed_ , sir,” Alfred replies, as expected, but Bruce isn’t unaware of all the things Alfred _doesn’t_ say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this one is my favourite. B*


	53. I Got Your Nose: Extras (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *continued from chapter 36.
> 
> This was a future scene for _I Got Your Nose_ (which was a cartoon _Young Justice_ fanfic, as an aside if you didn't know), in which Jason tries to threaten a gun-toting bad guy into releasing Cassandra, only to be distracted by Dick, after which he has a little panic attack?  
>  I never even got this far in the story, but I wrote it pretty early on, and posted it to my old tumblr originally, 31 Aug 2015.

Jason caught his eye only briefly, the gun going off almost in the same instant, forcing the boy’s teal greens shut as the recoil shuddered through him. Dick saw the gun slip right out of Jason’s fingers almost in slow motion, jumping back to hit him in the face, and Jason, plainly startled, took half a step back even as his knees buckled.

Dick had given the corridor a half-hearted glance down the way, but he’d already made up his mind and was pushing off the wall and running at his brother.

The first shot had him ducking his head and glancing around even as he kept his pace, but the shooter – a big man with a stubble-covered chin and tiny Cassandra under one arm – was already retreating and not aiming at anything even as he fired again.

Dick wasn’t taking chances, though – he’d all but yanked Jason off the ground before the boy had even properly landed or gathered his wits, and was hauling him back to the safety of the adjoining hall without pause.

Barbara stood plastered to the wall, but looking more composed to Dick than he thought he was, even if her blue eyes were wide and her expression concerned.

Dick was dimly aware of the faint echo of retreating footsteps as he came up beside the redhead, pushing Jason against the wall a little more roughly than was strictly necessary, tugging hard on the kid’s lapels—

“Are you insane?! What the hell were you _thinking_ , firing a _gun_?!”

Jason hadn’t protested the manhandling yet, having stumbled along towards safety wordlessly, and still he wasn’t saying anything – or even looking at Dick really, slumped against the wall with his face flushed and the ends of his sweaty fringe framing Babs’s butterfly stitches on his forehead.

Dick had pulled him close and wrapped both arms around his shoulders in the next moment, feeling at once more concerned than angry.

“You could’ve gotten yourself _killed_ ,” Dick whispered, unprepared for the way his voice cracked midway through the last word.

He took a deep breath, composing himself before he stepped back, holding Jason by the shoulders. He bent forward a little to better see the kid’s lowered eyes, “Hey,” he said, as gently as he could, all too aware they didn’t have the time to linger.

Someone would have heard all that shooting.

“Jason, look at me…” he held him by the face instead, but Jason’s eyes were firmly fixed away from Dick’s. “Just breathe, little brother, you’re okay.”

“M’fine,” Jason mumbled gruffly, giving Dick’s one arm a half-hearted shove. His eyes widened then, filled with realisation, before he made to move, back in the direction of the corridor, “Cass—”

“Hey, no, hold on,” Dick said urgently, and halted Jason by the arms. “Cass, is…she’s,” a quick glance at Barbara, but his friend made a face suggesting she had no adequate phrasing for the other girl’s predicament any more than he did.

“Fine,” Dick settled with then, and prayed it was true, holding up a halting hand at Jason. “For now—”

“Like hell,” Jason snapped loudly, and groaned almost at once, his hands coming up to half cover his ears and forehead at the same time as best he could, eyes shut tightly.

“Jay—”

“M’head hurts,” he mumbled through grit teeth so Dick had to strain to hear. “And my ears’re ringin’, and,” he swallowed, voice thick.

Dick rubbed at Jason’s arms as soothingly as he could, looked at Barbara again – but she had her eyes on the hallway, listening and watching in case of company, for which Dick was grateful.

“Well…” he sighed. “You are mildly concussed…and you did just fire a gun,” he tried to add with as little contempt as possible, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

Jason’s fingers tightened in his curls and he shook his head. Dick frowned.

“I didn’t _mean_ to,” the boy said, voice strained and small. “You—startled me, I—I only wanted to – I wasn’t gonna—I-I wouldn’t,” Jason took a shuddering breath that only just avoided turning into a sob, but, when he opened his eyes still without looking at Dick, the older boy could plainly make out the tears on his lashes. “I’d never – I-I, I swear I didn’t—I didn’t meant to, it was a-an _accident_ , Bruce—”

 Dick blinked, realising too late they weren’t talking about the recently fired gun abandoned in the corridor anymore.

“I’m sorry—s-so sorry—”

“I know, _I know_ – _listen_ , nobody blames you, Little Wing. It wasn’t your fault. You did _nothing_ wrong. Do you understand me? You did nothing wrong, Jason.”


	54. Loitering ch9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 4 October 2015.
> 
> Long chapter is long.  
> Also contains: Feels.

_facing fears_

* * *

“Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.”

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

* * *

“A guest for you, sir,” Alfred announced, stepping into the room first and hovering just beside the open door, still holding onto the knob.

Jason hesitated over the threshold for a moment, feeling too exposed with Tim and Cassandra’s eyes on him, and too apprehensive of what he might find inside the room, but—

“Can’t it wait, Alfre—uh…I guess you don’t mean me,” Dick finished with a mumble, once he’d turned around, eyes landing on Jason, who shifted his weight, and flexed his fingers at his sides, and kept his eyes carefully trained on Dick. The shorter man had stood up, out of his chair by the bed and was doing a brilliant job of blocking Jason’s view of who he _knew_ was lying there, and, for all that he’d come here to _see_ the damn man, Jason didn’t want Dick to move.

He blinked, and swallowed, and glanced back sideways at Alfred; the old man meeting his gaze for just a moment.

“Little Wing…” Dick said, ever so quietly, and Jason turned back to him. If he’d left a black and blue bruise on Dickie’s face to go with that skin-tight night time uniform of his, there was no trace of it anymore, now. No resentment for the punch either it seemed, because there was a small smile playing on Dick’s lips – there and then not, and again, like Dick didn’t know if it was alright to smile or not, but he really _wanted_ to anyway. “I didn’t think you’d…” he trailed off, with a little laugh in the back of his throat before he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed at the back of his neck, his other hand on his hip, eyes downcast.

Jason shifted his feet again, his shoulders half-twisting back, uncomfortable.

“But it’s,” Dick looked back up at him. “Nice to see you here, Jay…” his voice sounded strained to Jason’s ears, and his blue-blue eyes were red-rimmed, from crying no doubt, and his skin abnormally pale, in a different way than the sick-with-flu-or-whatever-it-was kind of pale it had been months before; and the stark contrast with his dark, dishevelled hair, and his _blue_ eyes surrounded by _red_ —he looked—

 _Haunted_.

Jason’s heart _ached_ a little, seeing his brother like _this_. He didn’t think he ever had before.

Jason might have said something into the following silence – opened his mouth to, in fact, though he wasn’t entirely sure what might have come out – if it wasn’t for the sound of shifting sheets behind Dick, making Jason stop short—

Suddenly, he felt frozen.

Dick turned, a little, to glance back at the bed, and Jason looked _pointedly_ away.

“Yeah, well,” Jason mumbled at the floor, feeling like all of his insides were shaking just underneath his skin, and then it all came out in a rush, “Nice to see you, too, but I’ve changed my mind—”

He’d turned around, _away_ from the bed and its occupant, of Dick’s – accusing? Sympathetic? Stunned? _Disappointed?_ – expression, whatever it was, even before he’d finished the sentence—

Only to come face to face with a closed bedroom door, Alfred having disappeared like a phantom, leaving him and Tim and Cassandra, with Dickie and—

Tim was in front of him then, the kid’s back pressed firmly to the door, his hands clenched into fists, and Jason stopped short in his step.

“Move, Tim,” he ordered half-heartedly, not looking at the kid, but—

Tim shook his head, very deliberately, when Jason finally _did_ look up; the boy’s jaw tightening too, his dark blue eyes determined above rings of sleeplessness that only now seemed apparent.

He looked so tired. They all looked tired.

Jason’s fingers curled into fists of their own, and his gaze darted off to the side, at Cassandra – training compelling him to know where she was and what she was doing; she wasn’t looking at him.

Part of him felt relieved at that, and the other part uneasy—

She’d cut through the silence in the hall commenting on the weather before Jason could sink too deeply into a bad memory, and he knew, if anyone could understand why, _now_ , after coming this far and being _so_ determined, he was suddenly—a _**cowardly** little shit_ —running away, again, it would be her—

And he wanted – just needed _someone_ to understand—

—only, perhaps _that_ was why she didn’t have her eyes on him – she didn’t _want_ to understand why, because—

—because, she _blamed_ him – for this—this disarray their – _her_ – family was in—

Not Bruce’s dying, or Tim and the Joker, but before all that, even – the way they were—

 _Broken_. She’d said.

Said she blamed him – had made it quite clear the way she’d pelted him with snow in the front yard, only to coax him inside shortly after, because—

Because she wanted this, too.

And perhaps, looking at him now, she _would_ understand which was why she wasn’t looking.

Jason thought, he could – maybe – understand that, in turn – and yet—he still needed someone else to understand, to—

To help _justify_ his—actions—he just—

Couldn’t do this.

He’d _thought_ he could, had been trying to convince himself of it all the way _here_ , but _now_ —

He _wasn’t_ brave at all. He was _just_ scared.

Just terrified—

Like he’d been the night Joker had beaten him half to death and blown him up the rest of the way—

Scared of never seeing his father again, never apologizing, never telling him how much he appreciated, or loved, him—

And now he _knew_ he _never would_ do that again—

Because he wasn’t sure right now if he’d _mean_ an apology – didn’t want to have to lie – and he _didn’t_ appreciate anything Bruce had done for – to – him lately, and he—

Even if he _did_ love him, still, just a _little_ – what were the chances of Bruce still loving _him_?

After everything he had done – against Batman’s moral code? And everything he was, _undoubtedly_ , still going to do after the man was gone?

Because Gotham _needed_ Jason’s breed of justice; it was the only way to keep her _tame_ and _safe_ , and Bruce _couldn’t_ understand that, no matter how Jason’s imagination tried to convince him otherwise—

“I said _move_ , Replacement,” Jason all but _growled_ , staring daggers at the kid’s haggard face, his fingers tight.

But Tim, for all that he looked more ready to crumple to the ground with every passing minute, stood his damn ground with the most intense expression Jason had ever seen on his face without the mask.

The kid shook his head, slowly, “ _No_.”

A huff of air escaped through Jason’s teeth, and he glanced sideways at Cassandra, but she still wasn’t looking at him.

“Timmy,” Dick had started at his back, and Jason could just _sense_ Dick’s hand hovering above his shoulder. Dick hesitated, in a way that made Jason think the words had literally stuck in his throat for a second, “Step aside, little brother,” he spoke quietly, voice a little hoarse and broken, and Jason—

—made the mistake of looking back around, to his right, where Dick was no longer standing, leaving the bed and its occupant in plain view—

—

—

—Jason didn’t realise he’d all but stopped breathing until Dick’s hand landed on his arm, squeezing, the touch physically jerking him from his thoughts – which had been blank, and confused and concerned all at once, because, _Bruce_ —

“You don’t _have_ to stay…Jason,” Dick’s voice was a whisper, and Jason blinked, not knowing when he’d turned his head away to look at the older man. Dickie’s red-rimmed baby blues were flitting left and right, searching for something on Jason’s face, or in his eyes that Jason couldn’t guess at—

Bruce at the corner of Jason’s vision, pale and sickly like half of everyone else in the house, too, and—

—and his closest arm hanging shakily in the air, fingers twitching with the desire to spread out, _reach,_ for Jason—

—

—

—Jason ducked his head; the glimpse of Bruce keeping his feet in place, and tightening the air in his lungs, and squeezing his throat so he couldn’t breathe where he was, but couldn’t leave either, while Dickie’s eyes, so unlike how Jason had ever seen them before, on his face, and his words – was he _really_ … _urging_? Jason to go? – only made Jason feel _guilty_ , and—

—and he couldn’t look any more. At either of them.

He caught his breathe, too loud, and Jason’s other hand was already reaching for Dick’s fingers even as the other man squeezed his arm again. Reassuringly?

But Jason didn’t think he could deal with this.

He didn’t want to be forced into this, but he didn’t want to simply be excused from it, either—

He wanted, rather—

He just wanted…

…

“Get out,” he said at last, speaking past the lump in his throat, his voice sounding thick and strained, as he plucked Dick’s hand easily from his arm, meaning to let go, but Dick caught his between his fingers and held on.

“Jay—”

“ _I said get out_ ,” he snapped, teeth grit and brow furrowed, still not looking up at Dick or anything – anyone – else, snatching back his hand and stuffing both in his pockets, shoulders hunching, almost automatically. His own reaction nearly made him flinch; he couldn’t remember having genuinely _shied away_ , like this, from anyone since before…he’d _died_.

He felt a little like fifteen again – on the receiving end of one of Bruce’s lectures after he’d done something stupid, _again_ , with Dickiebird playing at peace-keeper like only Dick could.

But Jason had grown so much, despite the initial malnutrition when Bruce had found him, and an incalculable amount of time he’d spent again on the streets right after his resurrection before Talia and his quick dip in a Lazarus Pit – after which he’d felt strange, and awkward, and nothing worked the way he remembered it should, making eating another slow habit to return – and he hadn’t been lectured by Bruce in quite a while, besides, that Jason didn’t doubt he looked more like a big, whiny baby curled into himself right now than anything else.

He sighed, quietly, consciously relaxing his shoulders, keeping his eyes on his shoes.

It was silent, then, for all but the whirr of machinery and the steady beating of a monitor, reflecting Bruce’s hea—

Jason’s chest seized up again, thinking for one terrified moment that he’d missed the _click_ of the door again, or Dickie was just _that quiet_ , and he’d ushered their siblings out the room and followed at Jason’s command, and they’d _left him alone_ , with Bruce, like he’d asked—

Relief washed over him at once when his head snapped up anxiously, and he turned, with his back much more to the door, only to find Dickie still at his side.

No one but Bruce could have seen Jason’s expression, and he fought real hard not to acknowledge that fact, as he schooled his face into something more neutral before Dick, who’d dropped his gaze to his tapping sock-clad feet, looked back up to meet his eyes.

Jason steeled himself, not certain what to expect – he felt like he’d lost a big block of time, the same way he’d spent an hour loitering at their door months ago without realising it until afterward, but, surely Dick and the others – his shoulder blades itching uncomfortably at having them at his back – couldn’t have stood quietly beside him for an hour doing nothing just now.

He was imagining the feeling.

Dick nodded at him, “Whatever you need, Jay, just—” Dick appeared to be eyeing him almost warily, visibly hesitating, before he _moved_ ; if the same way he might have, had he volunteered to stick his hand into a bear’s mouth hoping it wouldn’t bite it off at the wrist – Jason hardly had time to tense up, expecting—not sure _what_ —before Dick had wrapped his octopus-arms all around Jason much the same way he had the last time Jason had been to the manor; one limb pinning Jason’s arm to his side as the other snaked round Jason’s neck and squeezed.

Jason tensed, of course, for several reasons—

“Dick—” a token protest he wasn’t feeling at all, really, even as his most able hand slipped from his pocket as if to push Dick away of its own accord. It seemed like they’d done this too many times now, it was starting to become routine, although Jason wasn’t sure he’d gotten this many hugs even before… _before_.

Dick’s bony chin dug into his shoulder, and when he spoke Jason was almost certain no one else could hear, though he made out Dickie’s whisper well-enough so close to his ear, “Thank you for this…’m proud of you, lil’broth’r.”

Jason swallowed hard, and then regretted the reflex at once, sure Dick had felt it this close, and, leaving Jason with one more squeeze the older man stepped back almost at once, only confirming it.

Dick kept one hand on Jason’s arm and the other on his shoulder, as he had the last time as well, and offered Jason a small, tentative-seeming smile Jason couldn’t return, so he dropped his gaze instead.

Dick’s fingers only tightened on his arm again, before, “And _you_ ,” he said pointedly, and Jason spied him turning to face Bruce, one hand reaching for Bruce’s still hovering in the air. He clasped Bruce’s fingers in his own, tightly, “Be _nice_ ,” Dick said, only just not using the Nightwing-voice Jason thought, though he hadn't spoken to that side of his older brother in some time, and so couldn’t be sure, especially since there was a faint hint of amusement in Dickie’s tone, despite the seriousness of it. Dick was only half-joking, Jason thought, and couldn’t help the twitch of his fingers, safely concealed in his pockets, at least.

Dick hadn’t let up on the _grip_ he had on Jason’s arm, and the younger man was _this_ close to shrugging him off, not kindly, when Dick let go of Bruce, turning back to him, “You too,” he mouthed at Jason, though he was plainly smiling, poking Jason in the chest with his index finger and missing Alfred’s bandaged stitch-job with a couple inches – to Jason’s relief.

“Whatever,” Jason mumbled, eyes flicking away as he said it, his feet itching to shift and his arm stiff under Dick’s lingering hand. Dick’s lips thinned into a small smile, though, and he nodded.

Jason shifted, watching Dick face the rest of the room.

“C’mon, guys,” he said, holding out an arm for each of his siblings. Cassandra stepped closer from her spot near the far wall, and Tim ducked dutifully under Dick’s offered arm, allowing the older man to wrap it all around his shoulders and give him a good squeeze.

Jason glanced away at the scene, accidentally locking gazes with Cassandra instead – it was the first time she’d looked at him since they’d entered the room, and Jason had just long enough to wonder what she was seeing in him before she pointedly looked away and then disappeared past Dick and the kid, out the door.

Dickie hung back a second, Tim under one arm and his hand on the doorknob, “We’ll be right…around, out here, y’know, if you need anything,” he offered. “Just…linger in the doorway,” he shrugged one shoulder, “You know how Alfred senses that kind of thing,” and Dick smirked at him.

Jason half-smiled back, for the sake of it, not really wanting Dick to think he didn’t like his little joke, though Jason had hardly heard to be honest. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled, eyes darting – worriedly, he couldn’t help it – toward Timmy, who was regarding him with a wide grin on his face, all teeth, though it didn’t meet his blank blue eyes at all.

Dick either hadn’t noticed, or was ignoring it, and then he’d pulled Tim back and shut the door after one last awkward pause and a smile at Jason. He was suddenly alone.

With Bruce.

…

…

…

Beyond working himself up to _consciously_ and _intentionally_ , not only _take_ a trip to the manor, but also go inside, Jason hadn’t put _too_ much thought into what he’d do when he’d finally gotten to this point.

He’d considered planning a speech, or making a list of all the things he thought he had to say to Bruce.

Everything he’d never get to say to him again.

Only, the longer he’d thought about it, the more time he’d spent in his own head, going back and forth arguing with the Bruce in his mind. With Bruce and Dick, both.

So he’d eventually given up on planning it all out – instead, the plan was just to come. To focus on making it here, and if he’d gotten that far…well, then he’d be strong enough to face whatever else came afterward, he’d figured.

He’d let Bruce do the talking, he thought.

Only now, the old man wasn’t saying a word.

…

Jason stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes on the shut door and Bruce at his back, for several minutes before it occurred to him – what if Bruce _couldn’t_ speak?

He hadn’t said a word so far, and no one had explained the details of his condition to Jason. He hadn’t _wanted_ to know.

The man was dying and there was no cure – if Dick was sure of that, and it was reflected on old Alfred’s weathered face the way it had been the night before, then…it was _true_ , and that was enough. Jason had no extensive knowledge of medical maladies or cures, and he knew even less about this drug in particular.

Before ditching the case and calling in favours to find Tim instead, all he and the little red bird, he knew, had discovered about it, was that it was definitely lethal. And there was no cure. No way to reverse or reduce or eliminate the effects.

He’d been too preoccupied with Tim on his mind to return to the drug case, after finally finding and sharing the lost bird’s location. Fortunately he didn’t need to be present for his operations to continue, and to continue running smoothly, at that.

After Dick had told him it had been the same drug he’d been working on getting off the streets, that was responsible for putting the damn Batman out of commission, Jason had spent the last couple weeks back on the case with a vengeance – several new leads on where the drugs were being stashed having been unearthed in Jason’s absence, just waiting for him.

Considering the cut straight through his armour, slitting his skin, though, he may or may not have gotten back in too deep, too fast, and, in fact, he needed to get back to work so he could do something about that.

He’d have done something already, if he hadn’t promised Alfred.

He needed to do this first.

The Red Hood could disappear for a day; let them think they’d gotten him bad. Let them settle. Ease their minds.

And when he got back to working he’d make certain they knew not to underestimate him a second time.

“…Jason…?” so he _could_ talk, after all, rough and quiet though it was.

Jason’s back straightened at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if brought to attention.

He glared at the door, agitated with himself for that reaction. Bruce hadn’t even been using the ever-commanding “Batman-voice,” and the last time Jason had snapped ramrod-straight at the sound of that he’d been newly returned to Gotham for the first time since Talia and the Lazarus Pit.

Discovering, as he spied on Bats, attempted anonymous revenge he hadn’t been able to go through with at last, that he still responded to Batman’s tone the same way he’d been taught to as Robin, Jason had added unlearning that to his training. By the time he’d come face to face with Batman, to avenge his own damn self since the old man “ _couldn’t_ ,” Jason had been free of all the little ingrained reactions to Batman that used to be Robin’s. That used to be _Jason’s_ , too, because, he could remember now, suddenly, that Bruce’s own voice, own presence, eventually had a similar effect on Jason as Batman had on Robin.

Jason could never remove himself as completely, or partially, from the mask as Bats or Dick – or even Tim, and later Damian – had been able to.

Jason was just Jason, no matter what covered or stuck to his face. And, to him, everyone else seemed much like themselves regardless of masks, too. Batman and Bruce Wayne was the same person, through and through. They were equally stubborn, equally distant, equally old-fashioned, and equally guilty – for Dick’s face and Tim’s grin and Alfred’s tired eyes and Cassandra’s… Jason didn’t know her well enough to say, but, he was pretty sure there was something off about her, too, probably – snowball fight aside.

And it was Bruce’s fault.

Bruce and Batman both.

The same way they were both guilty for having _let_ the Joker get away with what he’d done to Jason. Killing him. Killing his mother.

Sometimes Jason forgot about that.

Perhaps because she’d sold him out to the Joker, Jason hadn’t gone to Bruce for vengeance for _her_.

 _Selfishly_ , he was too honest and felt too ashamed to deny it, he’d only ever been thinking of himself. The little kid he’d thought – he’d _thought_ – in his dying moments, still meant a little something to the only parent – he _thought_ – he had left.

But, like his mother – like, like _dammit_ , the both of them, if he was going to be _entirely_ honest with himself, because _shit_ – _and_ his biological father; Bruce…Bruce had let him down, too.

And the man felt no remorse over it – just like Jason’s real dad, like his real mom, sucking on a cigarette with her back turned while the Joker assaulted him with an old rusted crowbar, and Catherine who couldn’t keep her promises even though she _tried_ —

—

—

Jason sucked in a too-deep breath through his nose, hitching at the stretch of his chest, the pull of his stitches—

His shoulders relaxed, his fingers uncurling in his pockets—

“Did you see his face?” Jason asked, voice rough as Bruce’s own had been, and, Jason didn’t know whether he was referring to Dick, or Tim.

A moment passed, but there was no answer, and the returning silence clawed at Jason’s forced calm.

At once his hands clenched, shoulders tensing again, with anger this time.

“Did you _see_ ,” he grit through his teeth, turning slowly, “his _face_?”

He met Bruce’s eyes – blue and steely as the Bat’s ever were, regardless of his sallow features, all the dark shadows against the hard contours of his face.

Jason glared, “He looks _sick_. And _tired_ , and—” he may or may not have been about to say “dead.” “And what the—the _fu—hell_ , Buh—Bruce…?” he breathed, shoulders slumping even though his nails only dug deeper into his skin.

“…What did you _do_?” he asked, mostly rhetorically. “I’ve never seen Dickie like that, and—and _Tim_ , I—” he ran his palm across his face, fingers shaking over his lips, his other hand going to his hip. “I…” he’d looked away, at the window above Bruce’s bed. Thick red velvet curtains pulled to a close as they were, kept the room swathed in a greyish light, hiding dim sunlight beyond them.

Jason breathed, and pressed his fingers against his mouth to still them, and blinked at the burn at the back of his eyes.

He hated this.

…

Bruce said nothing, for one long, bitterly quiet moment, before Jason caught sight of the old man’s fingers, _reaching_ again, at the corner of his vision. Jason bit his bottom lip behind his fingers.

But Bruce wasn’t reaching for _him_ this time, he was pointing at Dick’s vacated seat.

“ _Sit_ …Jas’n…” the man said.

“I don’t want to _sit_ ,” Jason spat, hands coming down in fists again, and his eyes on Bruce, who didn’t so much as flinch at Jason’s tone, which was an unexpected relief for its familiarity. Bruce looked _older_ and more _fragile_ than Jason had ever seen him – even when he was recovering on the cot in the Med Bay downstairs right after one surgery or another he hadn’t looked _this_ … He’d never _looked_ like he was dying, not even in the moments it was going _so bad_ and Jason was convinced he _would_. And Robin would be left without a Batman, and Jason…without his father. “I _just_ want,” Jason started, trying hard not to shout it, “You to tell me _how_ this happened.”

Because Bruce had been an indestructible force in Jason’s mind. Always. And this – seeing him like this – was shattering every image of and dissolving every ounce of faith Jason had ever had in the man. Even as Jason had learned of Bruce’s apparent death the first time he’d been skeptical. And then angry, that the man who had ruined his second life from the moment it started, and who felt nothing about that and had cast him aside and branded him a failure and a mistake, had gone and died on him just like fucking _that_.

When Bruce came back, though, from his stint as a time traveller, of all the damn things, Jason wasn’t even surprised. But he _was_ “over it,” is the appropriate term. He’d hauled his ass out of bed one day after another and it _got better_. The more time passed the more he started to feel like himself again, to the point he was convinced the Jason who’d gone after Batman’s cowl in his absence, hadn’t even been him at all. He’d been childish, and rebellious and stupid, and he wouldn’t be doing anything like that ever again.

He was his own man now. He’d carved his own little kingdom out of Gotham’s broken slums and he was doing things the only way he _believed_ they were supposed to be done, to be effective.

He didn’t _need_ Bruce anymore, and he sure as hell didn’t need this family.

But he couldn’t deny they were tethered to him still, and tugging at the strings.

He’d always have the world’s respect for Bruce, for his talent and his skill, and maybe even his dedication, and maybe just the smallest bit of admiration for his resolve, even if that _did_ mean Joker stayed alive, and _Tim_ —and, and Jason didn’t get to start his second life peaceful because Bruce hurt him too much for that.

It was a very, _very_ small grain of admiration Jason didn’t _want_ to feel, but he couldn’t help it – because it was the same kind of resolve he was trying to keep himself. Sometimes he thought he could set the guns aside, and play by the Batman’s rules, and come back, and “try” like they wanted him to, but then—

Just the _thought_ , of all the awful people, the lowest, most disgusting _scum_ of Gotham city, running free after a few months – even a few years – and coming back to the innocent people and the victims they’d sworn revenge against, made Jason’s stomach _churn_. The women and the children, and the fathers who tried to _be_ something for their kids – Jason couldn’t just—

He couldn’t be everywhere, and he couldn’t live with himself if he slipped up somewhere and one of them got hurt because he’d been playing by the rules next to his “ _family_ ,” like he sometimes thought he wanted, like he sometimes thought _they_ wanted—

He couldn’t give into that desire, whether it really was _real_ , or just a thing his mind conjured sometimes to torture him with – make him feel like fifteen and desperate to please, and prove himself, and be _good_ , again—

It was rearing its ugly little head again, even now – he felt like such a _kid_. The boy brought to attention at his father’s tone – the little soldier ready to serve. The scared little kid, thinking he’d lose _everything_ he loved if Alfred didn’t come out of the Med Bay with good news.

Before he lost it all on his own, anyway, dying, alone in a warehouse, for all that his mother was right there crying next to him.

And Jason wanted to know. He wanted to know what had happened that he was losing everything all over again.

“Sssssi…suh…” Bruce slurred, swallowed, and licked some moisture onto his lips. Jason’s fingers twitched, and the corner of his mouth, thinking, if Bruce was going to ask him to sit down one more time instead of answering the damn question—

“I was…looking, for’u,” he half exhaled, blue eyes dropping from Jason’s hard gaze.

“This is _not_ my fault,” Jason snapped at once, raising a finger at the dying man like he was a defiant child. He nipped at his lip, shook his head, “I _never_ wanted you to go _looking_ for me,” he swiped one hand through the air. “You _know_ that—”

He cut off; Bruce’s slightly shaking fingers rising in a half-halting gesture. “S’not, what I meant,” Bruce said, thickly, and he shifted against the stack of pillows at his back, under his head, pushing as much as he could with his elbow and his other hand, trying to sit up straighter.

Jason didn’t move, wasn’t sure if he should – if he should help, or scold the damn man and tell him to lie back down.

Bruce eased himself back against the pillows at last, breaths deep and slow and ragged. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Jason stared, watching him visibly relax his muscles, almost one at a time – his shoulders slumping against the pillows, his head sinking a little deeper against the fluff, mussing up his too-long black hair some more, his chest falling into a smooth up-down rhythm, and his only visible arm going slack, fingers limp.

He breathed, slow and methodical, and opened his eyes on Jason, who shifted his weight and swallowed.

“You disappeared,” Bruce stated, more of his voice in his tone now, a little audible croak at the back of his throat. “I was…worried…”

Jason snorted, self-deprecating, before he could think not to, and stopped himself from saying something stupid and sarcastic. He’d looked away, missing whatever visual reaction Bruce had to that, though there probably wasn’t one – even on his deathbed he was being as stony as ever.

Jason didn’t know what to make of that – Bruce had always been strong, and part of that strength, Jason thought, lay in the walls he’d been building around himself for years after his parents died. Even though his children were inside those walls with him, now, they were still at arm’s length. Jason had always been, at least. Things felt a little like they were falling apart, the little bit he thought he had left, the strings Bruce still had tied to his soul, but—

Bruce was still the same, despite it, and…it was a strange sort of comfort to Jason. Jason didn’t know what he’d do if Bruce started acting as broken and defeated and dying as he looked.

Bruce had dropped his gaze, Jason noticed in his peripheral, back to the chair. A typical antique thing, low, with wooden feet and patterned upholstery, on the seat and the back and the armrests.

“Sit down, Jason…” Bruce repeated, quietly, no command in his voice. “Please.”

Jason licked at his own chapped lips, looked back at Bruce and met the man’s blue eyes. He blinked, and looked away, and scratched at the back of his head, and breathed. Bruce’s relaxed fingers were just out of arm’s reach from the chair now, after he’d sat up more.

Jason let the silence drag on, let his mind wander, wondering when the last time was he’d been that close without also looking for a fight.

When he shuffled forward, aiming for the chair, at last, he was hardly registering what he was doing. Uncurling his stiff fingers, he set them slowly on the armrests of the chair first, before sitting, uncomfortable, his eyes never quite leaving Bruce’s, equally locked on his.

“Happy now?” he muttered, only half-bitingly. Bruce hadn’t moved a muscle all the while Jason had took his time sitting down. Jason drummed the tips of his fingers against the fabric of the chair, across the fluffy velvet of the pattern, against smooth red. “You going to tell me what I want to know, now?”

Bruce nodded, slowly, steady, his gaze unwavering. He only looked away, more thoughtful than anything else, as he started speaking at last, “Tim was…” he looked… _sad_ , to Jason, suddenly. Behind his eyes. In his soul. “Just gone, and…we couldn’t _find him_. It was…an odd, thing. To have Tim…gone. We’ve always been… _blessed_ to have him,” Jason cut his involuntary intake of breath, sharp and agitated, off before he followed it up with something derisive and inappropriate. He clenched his fingers and looked away, toward the door. Tim was somewhere beyond it grinning like a maniac. He didn’t deserve… _that_ , or, Jason’s scorn over old wounds still scabbed over and undone round the corners, leaking crimson. He was only a kid, still.

If Bruce noticed Jason’s reaction – for what it was – he gave no indication, continuing solemnly, “He’s been losing…everyone, all around him, since the start… His parents. You,” Jason started at that, looking at Bruce, who had his eyes on Jason, too. Jason didn’t know what to say, how to ask what the hell he even meant, but, Bruce didn’t pause to let him anyway. “Me. His friends… Robin. I… Always thought it would…only be a matter of time, before… _we_ lost _him_ – only…not…like _that_ ,” Bruce’s tone was breathy and his voice quiet. He’d dropped his gaze again, and Jason sat deeper into the chair, in need of distance. He thought he’d seen a shimmer of tears at the corner of Bruce’s eyes, and it—

He didn’t know what to do with that.

“We checked the last case he’d been working on,” when Bruce looked up he was all composed Batman again. He cleared his throat, though, his voice sounding breathy and thin. There was a glass of water on the man’s nightstand and, if Jason was anyone else he thought, he’d probably be scooping it up and holding it for Bruce to drink. “Checked… _everything_. Came up empty. And then…when I thought _you_ …could shed some light, you – you were gone, too. Every,” his limp fingers still hanging off the bed twitched, rose in a little dismissive wave, before his hand went limp again as if it had never moved, “safe house, every…one didn’t know…where you were, and I—” he cut off, swallowed, and Jason shifted in his seat.

“Keeping tabs on me, old man,” he asked rhetorically, no humour and no anger in his tone, but, Bruce’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

“Always…Jason,” he breathed, quietly.

Jason briefly scowled at the floor. “What made you think I could…‘shed some light?’” he asked.

“You were working the same case.”

“Heh,” Jason couldn’t help a little snort of laughter, self-deprecating though it was. He’d been trying to be _so_ careful. “Replacement has always been your best detective,” he mumbled.

“Hm. He was,” Bruce nodded. “He thought you were…pushing the drug, at first,” Jason scowled at that, but didn’t interrupt with a heated defence – Timmy had caught onto the truth eventually. “Part of your trade, but – that wasn’t it. You were after the source…same as him. Trying to get it _off_ the streets.”

Jason nodded into the following almost-silence, “Yeah. I was,” he confirmed.

“And…how’s that going?”

“None of your business,” Jason answered plainly, calmly, watching his old mentor’s face.

Bruce didn’t look surprised.

“Finish your story,” Jason said, when the silence between them had dragged on too long, and the slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor on the other side of the bed was getting too loud for him to bear.

“We contemplated; perhaps…they’d gotten to you, too. So I tracked down a couple sellers – big men, tough. No match, for…‘ _The Batman_ ,’” his fingers twitched again, and Jason blinked at his tone.

Batman had always been, he’d thought, Bruce’s…armour, sometimes. And his soul, his _real_ self, even as Bruce and Brucie Wayne were parts of him, too. And for all the things he’d ever done wrong, the mistakes he’d made, the accidents he’d caused, while wearing the cowl – he’d never once, afterward, sounded like _this_ about that part of him. He’d never been _too_ confident or _too_ sure of himself when he’d gone out in the mask – not since he’d started, at least, the way he’d told Jason stories as a kid—

And Jason could recall, suddenly, jumping up from his seat on the staircase, tattered book in hand, to rush back to his room before Alfred could find him. The old butler had come up to check on him, and Jason had feigned sleep as best he knew how. But he couldn’t fall asleep for the life of him, and so he’d gone wandering once he was certain Alfred had returned to the cave. He’d ended up in Bruce’s room. In his chair – _this chair?_ And had fallen asleep there, curled into a ball and clutching his book to his chest.

He’d woken up, a thick blanket draped all around him, to Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Jason, looking thoughtful. Jason had been scared, but Bruce didn’t say anything. Ushered him down to breakfast. After the second time Jason had dared napping in Bruce’s chair, the man had advised he take the bed instead, less he get a crick in the neck, and when Jason, too tempted not to, _did_ take the bed, he’d been the one sitting at its edge in the morning, watching Bruce in the armchair.

He’d had his feet on the bed, his back on the seat of the chair, arms loosely crossed and his chin resting on his chest. Jason had grinned, and laughed at the way Bruce seemed to creak and moan like some un-dead creature come back to life, he’d thought at the time, as Bruce had sat up, amused despite himself.

Eventually, Jason had gone back to the staircase, too old to still be sleeping in his dad’s bed, but not too old – never too old, too sure – to wait for him to come home. And maybe sometimes get tucked in. And ask for a story.

Bruce had always told the best kinds of stories – because they were real, and wonderful. _He_ was real.

 _More_ so, _now_ , than ever before. The Batman…was only a man.

Jason blinked, pulled from his reverie at Bruce’s next words, realising he’d missed part of the tale, “—breathed it in before I’d even realised—”

“Uh, wait,” Jason cut in, feeling stupid, “The…drug, you mean?”

Bruce nodded, patiently, and added, “I didn’t know what it was – caught me by surprise,” he admitted quietly. “My head was…full of other things…” he scowled off to the side, briefly, plainly annoyed with himself. Perhaps, Jason thought, not even particularly at inhaling a deadly drug, but rather just the general lack of attention for what had been going on. Jason remembered those parts of his lessons – always be vigilant, always be aware of your surroundings, never let your mind wander—

“Smelled, _sweet_ ,” Bruce continued; thoughtful, it sounded. “Was…just a scent, _hanging_ in the air, suddenly – a puff of… _gas_ , or…invisible, I…didn’t even know they’d… _released_ it, until, _after_ —”

“So, wait – it’s an aerosol, now?” Jason interrupted again, leaning forward in his seat without realising. “I didn’t know that,” he mumbled, thoughts drifting from Bruce’s story back to his case.

The drug had started out as a pill. Bodies followed in its wake. Jason had assumed the…“victims,” for lack of a more appropriate term, had merely overdosed, but further research into the case had revealed that most had barely taken two of the things, if so many. It offered a fleeting, blissful, unaware-of-the-world kind of high, and left its victims falling fast and hard – to their _deaths_.

It disappeared off the streets for a short while, and Jason hadn’t learned any of this until after its return. It had not been back long before Jason had spied Red Robin spraining his wrist in an alleyway near his turf – exclusive to powder form this time, but still lethal even though the body count had dropped exponentially since its first run round the block. Still, Jason had been hesitant to assume whoever was manufacturing it was still in the test-phase and killing wasn’t the end-game.

Especially with the Bat’s new intel – product on the street was still causing eventual deaths even without continuous use, it only took a lot longer before it got there, or, in some very lucky cases, it didn’t get there at all. But none of what was being sold was airborne.

It wasn’t a dissipating liquid, or a canned vapour, or anything – it was only the powder. Jason only had intel on the _powder_.

Either they only had the one supply of aerosol, or had several for defensive purposes only, in case they got cornered by vigilantes – or a _specific_ vigilante and they’d only needed the one supply exclusively for taking out The Batman – _or_ , they were saving whatever else they had to release it on a _much_ larger scale—

Like, say, all of Gotham City?

 _Shit_.

Idly, Jason scratched at his bandage-covered stitches through his shirt, lost in his thoughts—

 _Shit_.

He _really_ hoped they hadn’t decided to lace their weapons with the damn thing—

“You’re not listening…”

Jason’s head snapped up, realising he _had_ , in fact, not been listening, “Er, what’d’you say?” he mumbled, ignoring the heat on the tips of his ears.

There was the tiniest shadow of a smile playing at Bruce’s lips. He ignored Jason’s question, “I’d forgotten…that look you get, on your face…when you’re thinking,” he sighed, oddly blissful. “Trying to solve my cases before me…” he was looking past Jason now, like he was lost in a memory. Jason thought to say something, might have even, when Bruce looked back at him, serious, “What were you thinking of, just now?”

Jason swallowed, uneasy, and leaned back in the chair again, still feeling too close, “I…” if he was right, there probably wasn’t any way he could carry on doing this by himself. Jason was by no means an idiot – the old Bat’s brood were good for a ton of things and Jason had used them before whether they knew it or not. Besides which, this was their home as much as it was his and he wasn’t so much of an ass he’d ignore that. “I need to get back to work,” he said thus, “If it’s an airborne thing now, for all we know they might be planning on releasing it on the entire city. We need to find them, and stop them—”

“You don’t even know who ‘ _they_ ’ are,” Bruce interrupted, his voice enough to shut Jason up even though he’d spoken just as quietly, levelly, as he’d been the entire time.

Jason paused for the span of a heartbeat before he answered, though he wasn’t entirely certain Bruce hadn't just been making a statement, rather than asking a question, “No, I don’t,” he said plainly, a tiny twinge of exasperation at the edge of his tone. “I’ve been trying to find them, but I haven’t – and Tim hadn’t either, did he?” Jason didn’t give Bruce time to reply, he already knew the answer to that, “But—” he’d thought of something else, “You must’ve already thought about that – you’ve been sick for weeks,” he trailed off into a mutter, playing it out for himself, “Known about this for weeks, and, you wouldn’t just let it go, a potential threat to the _entire_ city—”

“I wouldn’t worry, about ‘ _them_ ,’ Jason,” Bruce said, and Jason scowled up at him, blinked.

“What? You took care of it?” he scathed.

As unaffected as ever by his tone, Bruce answered easily, “Something like that.”

“And at what point during your _fatal illness_ , did you find the time?”

“Right around the time we found Ti—you. _You_ found Tim. And we…rescued him. Right around then.”

Jason stared; he’d been so sarcastic, not actually expecting to receive an answer, but – he should have known better. He was talking to _Batman_ , after all.

“I…haven’t _thanked_ you, for that—”

Jason cut him off before he could, “And you just weren’t going to tell me that you’d resolved my case all by yourself?” he scowled.

Bruce looked, for a moment, like he was resisting a longsuffering sigh, “You weren’t speaking to me.”

Jason’s scowl deepened at that, “ _Dick_ could’ve said,” he snapped, swiped one hand through the air, prickled also at his newfound annoyance at Dick for keeping this from him, “I had a right to know!”

“That’s not in dispute, Jason,” Bruce replied, unperturbed. “Of course you did, and, I would have told you – explained. But…you weren’t speaking to me—”

“So now it’s _my_ fault?” Jason snapped. “Just like every _other_ damn thing!” he blinked, annoyed, and got to his feet.

Bruce did sigh, then. “Dick didn’t know. I never told him. That you were working the case. That I inhaled their drug when I did,” another sigh. “Or that the pe—ople responsible for manufacturing it…were taken care of. Dick doesn’t know that.”

Jason had turned his back on the old man, a few steps from the bed and the chair, his hands clenched against his hips in frustration. He shook his head at his feet, and looked up at the ceiling, exasperated, “And why the hell would you do that?” he asked rhetorically, turning as he spoke, “Have you _honestly_ not learned this lesson before? You don’t _share_ the things that happen with you, and _this_ is the kind of crap that goes down next!” he gestured at Bruce. “And—on-on top of _everything_ else, you really think Nightwing’s going to sit idly by while, so far as he knows, there’s still a deadly drug on the streets—?”

“Yes,” Bruce cut in, firmly, “Because, I told him to.”

Jason chuckled, low and hollow and derisive; he threw up his hands, “ _Of course_ – of course! Batman snaps his fingers and Nightwing asks how high to jump – come down, too? Take a swing round the high-rise?” he was half-pacing, jittery with annoyance and frustration, and spite, unable to look at Bruce too long but never able to fully turn away either, “‘Where do you want me?’” he mocked, swiping one hand through the air before he finally came to a stop, back to Bruce after all, arms crossing tight against his heaving chest.

He breathed, and blinked, and grit his teeth, shoulders stiff and strained, and breathed some more, slow as he could, desperate to calm down and feeling stupid and annoyed at himself.

“…You know that’s not true,” Bruce mumbled behind him, not incoherent enough he couldn’t make it out.

Jason scowled, because yes – he _did_ know. He _knew_ it wasn’t true. Dickie never jumped when he didn’t want to himself. It’s the very _reason_ he’d become Nightwing in the first place – defiant of Batman’s wishes to keep him from the field. It was often the topic of their arguments, Jason could recall – Dick’s penchant for disobeying orders when he didn’t believe whatever Bruce was doing or requesting was the right call. But sometimes, even when it didn’t seem to be, Dick would do what Bruce wanted anyway, seeing some bigger picture he couldn’t argue against.

He obeyed about as much as he did his own thing – and he was always adamant about that: _his own thing_. Part of Jason had admired him a little bit for it, imagined that, one day, that would be Jason – doing _his_ own thing. Only, he’d half-sworn to himself he’d do it different. He hadn’t liked arguing with Bruce and he hadn’t liked the thought of just running off and becoming a hero by himself. On his own terms, eventually, sure – maybe – but…not without Bruce’s blessing.

So fucking much for that idea.

…

…

…

Jason couldn’t find it in himself to agree, though – to admit that, yes, Dick wasn’t the poster boy for following orders, because…as rebellious as he might have been, he was loyal and trustworthy, and perfect, and Bruce’s _perfect_ partner, always. He could _always_ come back and wrap Bruce right around his little finger again, while Jason—

It irked him, feeling this way about Dick – almost especially now, when Jason had seen the hopelessness in Dickie’s eyes minutes before – how long had he been in here? – and he felt _guilty_ for thinking badly of Dick when he was already a downed dog kicked in the side, and the universe hated them all and was killing their father, and—

But Jason couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help comparing Dick to himself, like he always had – like Bruce always had, like—

Because Dick might lose his temper and his explanation might be heated and equally annoyed as Bruce’s rebuttal, but eventually, he’d end up convincing the Dark Knight that whatever he’d done had been the right thing, and Bruce—

Jason had crossed a line somewhere – maybe he’d stepped over it several times, but always came back, until – maybe he’d stayed on the other side the day he couldn’t stop Felipe Garzonas falling off his damn balcony—

Jason could always be…some _semblance_ of forgiven, but Batman never quite _forgot_ —

He’d always be the disobedient Robin. The _bad_ one. The _failure_. The one who got himself killed, because—

That’s what it looked like, didn’t it?

Jason hadn’t told anyone, ever, that his mother had _handed him over_ to the Joker, to be beaten bruised and bloodied and blown up for good measure—

Why _would_ he? It— _hurt_. _Fuck_.

—it must have, just seemed, like Jason had gotten himself caught and beaten and blown up, because he got reckless and careless and disobedient and out of control, like the _bad_ fucking Robin he was—

But he _wasn’t_.

He wasn’t _really_ – he hadn’t been—

He’d been – he’d _tried_ – to be a _good_ Robin, didn’t he?

To be a _good_ partner, a _good_ little soldier—

To make—

—Bruce— _proud_ —

And Dick, and—

—

—

Jason wanted to ask, what exactly Bruce had said to Dick to make him leave the case alone—

“— _Jason_?” he flinched, Bruce’s voice filling his ears as if through a hazy dream he’d been _so_ caught up in his own thoughts, and, when he came back to himself, abrupt and all at once, he was unprepared to find himself so undone—

Jason bit at his trembling bottom lip, hard, and he winced at the strain on his chest when he crossed his arms tighter, shoulders hunching – he blinked, hard, and kept his eyes closed against the wetness behind them.

He needed to pull himself together.

“Chum…” Bruce breathed at his back, and Jason scowled. “…What are you thinking…?”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason choked, and scowled harder, not having meant to sound like that. He relaxed his arms, slumped his shoulders, with effort, and _breathed_ , carefully, “The…” he swallowed, shifted and turned his head, “The drugs – if you, _took care of it_ , why are there still drugs on my streets?” he hadn’t meant to ask – he’d _meant_ to ask about Dick, but the thought had slipped his mind—

Bruce took a moment, as if he was weighing the need to answer the question against the desire to ask something else, because, Jason knew, Bruce was well aware that hadn’t been his thoughts.

He’d been far away – on another continent, being a bad Robin beaten to death—

“The manufacturer—s,” Bruce tacked the “s” on belatedly, and Jason frowned, letting himself be pulled from his thoughts to focus on what the man was saying, turning half around to watch his face, “Won’t be producing any _more_ of the drug,” Jason idly fingered the bandage under his shirt, eyes narrowing – Bruce was hiding something, his eyes on Jason’s fingers shifting back and forth. “What you’re seeing, on the streets, is…extra. They’re probably trying to…get rid of it, quick as they can. Sloppy. It’s why,” Bruce met his eyes, “I expect, you haven’t been having too much trouble, tracking them down, lately…” Jason’s fingers stilled against his chest, his hand dropping. “…Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Jason cut in, not kindly.

“…Going to sit down again…?” Bruce asked, like Jason hadn’t spoken.

“No,” he decided, firmly, brushing off an embarrassed feeling before it could fully form, and turned all the way around to face Bruce, stuffing his hands in his pockets where he could keep them clenched out of sight. “What did you tell Dick?” he demanded, getting back to his first thought before acting on the newest one, “Why isn’t Nightwing out there working on destroying the remaining drugs?”

Bruce glanced away, jaw stiffening briefly, before he regarded Jason once more, “I convinced him…GCPD is taking care of it – that they have everything they need, and it’s no concern of ours anymore—”

“But they don’t, and they’re not, are they?” Jason interrupted. “Because this started on _my_ turf, and it was _my_ case first, and there are no cops there, because that’s where cops get turned or killed, and you wouldn’t put them there just like that. You’re leaving this for _me_ to clean up, but you’re _lying_ to Dick and the cops about it!”

“Yes. I am,” Bruce admitted plainly, tone leaking the same kind of authority that had Jason sitting up straight when he was a kid, “And I expect you to do the same—”

“Like _shit_ , old man,” Jason snapped, shoulders squared and hands out of his pockets, “The hell makes you think I’d do that?” not that he had any desire to work with Nightwing on this, and not only because he and the Red Hood were technically at odds and opposite ends, but also – Dickie had his hands full here, and Jason didn’t need to pile onto that when he was, in fact, perfectly capable of taking care of this himself – but, _but_ —he was _so_ damn tired of Bruce’s secrets, and his lies, and the way he was, _still_ , even on his damn deathbed, convincing people to let him rule their lives—

Jason had half a mind to point that out plainly and then rip him a new one for it, too—

“Because I _saw_ ,” Bruce raised his voice for the first time, and it boomed and cracked, and made Jason take half a step back, surprised, “ _His face_ , Jason…” he ended Jason’s name in a breathy whisper, and Bruce’s steel blue eyes dropped, his gaze on his sheets rather than Jason’s face. Jason was startled, at Bruce’s tone, what he’d said – answering Jason’s very first question, “Dickie’s face…” Bruce whispered, voice hoarse. “Tim’s, with the—” he didn’t finish the thought, but Jason could fill in the word for himself – “grin” – “and, _Alfred_ …Cassandra…I…and I _know_ ,” he looked up again, and Jason swallowed. “Whose fault that is...” his lips moved, “ _mine_ ,” but there was no sound.

Jason was torn, between feeling regret at having asked the question, and—feeling empowered, because, “Tell me who manufactured the drug,” he said into the stunning silence that had followed, before he’d even given it proper thought.

Bruce shook his head, slow, as if pulling himself out of whatever state of mind had come with his confession, “…No.”

“Why not – it’s _my_ case—”

“It’s not important anymore,” Bruce replied, simply, shifting his gaze, turning his head, dismissive.

“Of course it is,” Jason retorted. “ _Tell_ me—” every effort he’d ever made at finding the drug’s source had come up empty, like it simply didn’t exist and no one _knew_ who was really behind it, every lead led to another led to a dead-end – what had Batman done differently to figure it out? “Tell me or I’m telling Dick everything,” Jason said, cold and serious as he could. “I’ll tell all of them.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. He hadn’t come here for this, Jason had to remind himself, but – Bruce was planning on taking this to the grave, very literally. There was more to it. There was a reason. There was some significance behind the identity of Jason’s mystery drug manufacturer, and this—

This would come back to bite the next Batman – because there _was_ going to be another, Jason knew – in the ass, and then… _Well_.

Unless Bruce was leaving it in another holographic will or a triple-encrypted file (which didn’t feel like the case to Jason), him just _telling someone_ was going to be in everyone’s best interest down the line if they were going to survive whatever revenge the jailed manufacturer got to cooking up on their vacation in prison. They already had a formula for a deadly poison that was slowly killing _The Batman_.

Jason was in no mood – was never going to _be_ in any mood – to deal with whatever came after that.

Vaguely the thought came to mind that Gordon might know – obviously Dick and Alfred and Cassandra (and Tim…) didn’t know, because if they did Bruce wouldn’t have had such a hang-up telling Jason, too. But if the culprit was in prison, Gordon must know who it is—

“You do that, Jason…” Bruce started, tone ominous, glare unwavering and cold, “And whatever they do with that…will be on _you_.”

Jason started, shoulders slumping. He stared, unconcerned with what his face might look like, because he wasn’t scowling or glaring or frowning anymore, and he felt – guilty, and cheated, and stupid, and undeserving of—he didn’t even know what—

Bruce’s blue eyes flitted left and right, searching his face for something, perhaps some kind of reaction, or an indication that he wasn’t going to spill Bruce’s secrets after all – because, Jason realised, he wasn’t – until at last, he spoke, quiet, and genuinely curious, “…Why are you _here_ …Jason…?”

“I’m here, because Alfre—d,” he half-paused, having started up his answer too quick, too defensive, without taking in the implication behind Bruce’s question, “Asked…” he mumbled. “And, Tim, said—” but he choked off at the end of that, a vice round his throat suddenly, cutting off air – because—because—had they been _lying_ to him? Bruce—hadn't really asked to see him—?

He’d been so caught up, in the request, in the thought of coming, in the attempt to keep his promise – so taken by their words and their urging – and he _had_ , he _had_ doubted—

Was asking him to the manor even a thing Bruce would do—?

But Dick, and Alfred, and then Tim, also – and Cassandra, even – he—they’d— _lied_?

Jason caught himself, blinking like a deer in the headlights, feeling his chest tighten, and his voice sounded thin when he forced himself to speak, “I—I think I, I’ve heard everything I needed to,” he mumbled, quick and dismissive, waving a hand and not looking at Bruce, turning for the door, “I’ll just go—”

“Wait,” Bruce was saying, and then louder, more urgently, “ _Jason_ —!”

And Jason couldn’t help but pause, fingers round the doorknob, his other hand on the doorframe, and all of him rigid and stunned, and—

—frightened.

“I – I didn’t mean to _imply_ —” Bruce spoke, breathy and quick behind him, fumbling with his words, “Of course I knew, you were coming, and I—” a pause, and Jason heard the heart-monitor, frantic, beeping into the silence, “Jason?” his voice lost none of its urgency, but it softened considerably. “Turn around, Jason…come _here_ ,” it wasn’t a command by any means, but neither was the old man begging at all. It was a request. A polite one at that.

Jason’s fingers twitched against the doorknob, and he stared at the wooden frame, blinking tears off his eyelashes.

He didn’t know what to do—

All at once, everything felt like it had come crashing down and he hadn’t even known it was teetering overhead—

“I can’t get up out of this _damned bed_ , kiddo,” Bruce half-snarled at him, “Come _back here, Jason_.”

Jason felt himself shaking his head, slowly. He wanted to say something, come up with some or other excuse – anything not to turn around, have Bruce see _his_ face, too – but the words wouldn’t form in his head or his throat—

“ _Please_ , chum,” Bruce breathed, and Jason’s shoulders shook involuntarily. “I’m…I’m _happy_ you’re here, Jason. Just…come _sit_ – let’s talk. Please?”

“Quit your whining, old man,” Jason snapped, as best his could, but his voice betrayed him – strained and hitched.

He uncurled his fingers from the doorknob, swiped roughly at his cheeks, blinking back the remaining moisture in his eyes even as he spoke, as calloused as he could, “Sheesh – really? Since when do you _beg_?” he mumbled, little heat to his words, and he turned back around at last, unable to keep a loose posture as he marched back to the chair. He avoided Bruce’s eyes, but didn’t miss the relieved sigh escaping the old man’s lips, or the way he settled back against the pillows – he’d been pushed up onto one arm, leaning over, in the direction of the door, his other arm out from under the bedding and reaching—

He left it against his chest now, and Jason had to take another look at it for the scars there, across the back of his hand, creeping up his arm…

Jason swallowed, resting his hands heavily on the armrests and sinking slowly onto the seat, sitting on the edge of the chair.

“I’m sitting,” he scathed, half-hearted though it was, and ran shaky fingers through his hair, avoiding eye-contact, “ _Now_ what?”

“…It looks good on you – the white, little streak,” Bruce opined very quietly, like he meant it for himself more than anything, but Jason’s eyes snapped to his—

“We are not discussing my _fucking hair_ ,” he said fiercely, fingers balled back into fists, his heart hammering in his chest.

He’d been trying so hard to keep it all back, keep it at bay, keep it— _buried_ —stalling with talk about the case, and Bruce’s condition, but, _now_ —

Jason could tell they were done talking about that, and Bruce—Bruce was going to make him talk about everything else. He didn’t know if he wanted to – if he was _ready_ , for that, for _fixing_ things, if they even _could_ —

“No…” Bruce agreed quietly, dropping his gaze, “I…I guess we have more important things,” he swallowed, scarred fingers twitching in a way Jason thought – thought might have been _nervousness_. “To discuss…Um, I’m – not sure where…” Bruce shook his head. “What would you like,” he started, looking up, speaking quietly, “To talk about, Jason?”

Jason’s breath caught, and he half-choked out a sob before he could stop himself, slapping one hand hard across his mouth and ducking his head, his eyes closed but not containing the moisture there—

He hadn’t been expecting that, and he couldn’t – think, or breathe, or control himself anymore.

“Jason,” Bruce spoke urgently, and Jason could swear he s _ensed_ Bruce reaching for him.

“ _Nothing_ —” he breathed, and choked through his tears, sobbing into his hand and bending so far forward his forehead nearly touched his knees. His shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, “I don’t want to—talk about—a-anything—”

“Alright,” Bruce said at once, even before Jason had finished speaking. He sounded oddly… _soothing_ , to Jason’s ears, but the quiet and the comfort only made Jason cry harder, “Alright,” Bruce didn’t let up on the tone, though, and his fingers brushed lightly against the top of Jason’s head. “It’s alright…son…it’s alright—”

“’m not your son,” Jason choked, lifting his head far enough to glanced up, but his sight was blurry with unshed tears laying thick in his eyes, so he dropped his head back onto his knees, clutching his jeans with one hand, the other still stiff on the armrest, clenched incredibly tight, “’m no one’s-s-s s-son,” he choked, sniffed, breath tight and halting in his throat, his words slurring and his tongue thick. It was an old mantra that bore repeating, even as he’d thought of Bruce as his father – before— _before_ —and sometimes, sometimes _still_ , but not really, and it didn’t matter, because—

“’m not your—s-s’n,” he mumbled, again and again, trying – _trying_ – to stifle his pathetic sobbing, but not managing in the least.

“I know…” Bruce whispered, and his hand, having pulled back when Jason reared himself up, came back to rest against his head. “I know…” and he ran his fingers through Jason’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead like he meant to see Jason’s face, or coax him back up, so Jason curled deeper into himself, his hands coming up to clutch at his hair, arms tight against the sides of his head. “…Jason…”

But Jason hardly heard, his crying half-drowning out whatever else Bruce was saying, his own broken voice escaping sharply through his lips, tearing at his throat, loud even as he tried to muffle the sound against his knees—

He kept shaking, and tugging at his hair, and choking on his sobs, chest heaving, breath hitching—

He could feel his cheeks and his chin and his eyes – _wet, wet, **wet** —_

And Jason could only faintly make out, on and off beyond the wailing, sobbing sounds escaping his throat like heady tugs on his soul—Bruce’s whispers, “It’s alright, kiddo…I know… I know…” his hand having shifted from Jason’s hair to his clutching fingers instead, just sitting there as the old man mumbled. “It’s alright…Jay…it’s alright…I—it’s alright—”

And Jason found, he couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more to Jason and Bruce's conversation after this, but it happened as a "behind the scenes" kind of thing in this fic, because I'd meant to save it for a "companion piece" to _Loitering_ I'd mentally dubbed _Lamenting_. Spoiler alert: I'm not going to be writing that anymore. :/
> 
> You want to skip to chapter 58 for chapter 10.


	55. KitKat Convo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 Oct 2015.
> 
> Jason has a crush on Cass. He and Tim chat about it while on a grocery-run for Alfred. High school AU?  
> It's all just dialogue, sidenote.

“I’m buying these three _KitKats_.”

“Then you’re buying them with your own money.”

“Then I’m ‘buying them with my own money.’”

“Why do you suddenly crave three bars of chocolate?”

“Because. I need to feel better.”

“…I’m going to regret this, but—why?”

“Because!”

“You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

“ _Because_ , all she said, was ‘thank you.’”

“…Okaaay……yeah, no. Who is ‘she’ now?”

“Cassandra.”

“Uh…which Cassandra is this?”

“What do you mean ‘which Cassandra’ – there’s only _one_ Cassandra!”

“Oh no, you mean Cassandra Cain? Cassandra with the ‘raven black hair’ and the deep dark eyes ‘like black holes that suck you right in and don’t let go’…?”

“See, you remember.”

“I thought we were past this – you haven’t talked about her in a while…”

“You haven’t been _listening_ in a while, that’s all. _Apparently_.”

“…I listen.”

“… _Yeah_. So, she’s going to run that marathon tomorrow, you know?”

“I do know. So? What was she thanking you for? – wait. Do I _want_ to know the answer to that question?”

“Don’t imply your dirty thoughts to me, Drake. I have her number, right, so—”

“Are these the ones Alfred usually gets?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. And no – it’s these ones.”

“Oh!”

“So, I have her number right, and she’s running that marathon, and I know that, and she _knows_ I know that, because I kind of liked her Facebook photo, where she’s with all the runners – and it _says_ there, about the marathon.”

“Okay. So?”

“So, I sent her a message, like, this morning, and I was all like, ‘Good luck for tomorrow, Cassandra!’ *weeeee* with a smiley face, and she was all, ‘Thank you!’ *I utterly _hate you_ *.”

“I doubt very much those were her exact words.”

“They were _implied_. I read between the lines.”

“The lines between ‘ _thank_ ’ and ‘ _you_ ’?”

_*glare*_

“You know you sound ridiculous?”

“ _You_ sound ridiculous, doubting me. This is all that pretty-boy’s fault, with the dark hair and the broad shoulders.”

“Er…who? And how is this his fault?”

“They were being all chummy in the photo, Tim. _Obviously_ , there’s something going on there.”

“And that’s the reason for your grateful ‘thank you’?”

“ _Dismissive_ ‘thank you,’ Tim. The kind of *thank you* that screams, ‘I hate your guts and you’re an awful person, I’m too busy talking to Mr Muscles over here to pay you any mind—’”

“—Cass would never say that, even if she didn’t like you—”

“‘—what’s your name anyway, and why are you even talking to me, huh?’”

“Wow.”

“ _Yeah_ , ‘wow.’”

“That is a _lot_ of paranoia for one person.”

_*scowl*_ “Where’s the support, Tim? You’re supposed to be my little brother!”

“I’m sorry, Jason. Let me rephrase: I have no idea what you want me to say.”

“I want you to _say_ , Tim, that, you’ll find this guy and assassinate him.”

“That’s—er, a little extreme, don’t you think? Also not my area of expertise.”

“Damian doesn’t listen to a thing I say, and, oddly, you’re so much better at _Assassin’s Creed_ than him, which, what even? _Besides_ , it’s not _extreme_.

“As my little brother Tim, it is your duty, nay – _nay_ , your _privilege_ , to assist me in the pursuit of my future wife— _privilege_ including, but not limited to, the assassination of my competition.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m sorry Jason, but I can’t really assassinate Connor, no matter how big a privilege it is.”

_*pause*_ “‘Connor?’”

“Yeah. That’s his name. Connor.”

“Pray tell, Timmy, _how_ , is it, that you know the name of my nemesis?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Best friend? _Best friend?_ I thought _I_ was your best friend??”

“You’re really not.”

“I’ve been betrayed.”

“Yes. So it would seem.”

“By my _own brother_.”

“Adopted brother.”

“‘Curse you, sudden but inevitable betrayal.’”

“Yes, curses, for shame—wait, is that a quote? That sounded like a quote.”

“Is there no one I can trust anymore?”

“…You’ve _really_ gone off the deep-end.”

“Quiet, you. I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“Nooooo…you’re talking to your bar of chocolate.”

“Well, at least it _feigns_ listening – you just don’t care.”

“Look, Jay – it’s really not my fault my best friend, Con, is also friends with Cass. I had nothing to do with that. It’s Babs that introduced them.”

“Well, I can’t blame Babs.”

“No, you really can’t. I suppose in a roundabout way we can blame Dick.”

“Oh, I like that.”

“I knew you would.”

“Hm…maybe you are on my side. A little.”

“Sure I am.”

“…Waaait a second – how come you call her ‘Cass?’”

“All her friends call her Cass.”

“What? You two are friends? How are you friends? How do I not know this? You’re not even in the same class!”

“She’s friends with Steph, who is, y’know, my girlfriend, and that’s how we know each other. Also Babs, and by extension Dick, so again – his fault.”

“Grrr…I hate all of you.”

_*snort*_

“Don’t you snicker at me; you’re the worst of all. You know I like her, but you’re not even helping me out here. Ohh—no. I see how it is. * _Connor_ * is your best friend, and you’re his _wingman_ , so you’re trying to get her to date him, never mind your _brother_ , who’s liked her since we met.”

“Like two years ago. Which way is the ham again…?”

“ _This_ way – are you listening to me rant?”

“Yu _p_. I’ve told you this before, Jay – if you like her so much, just tell her.”

“What, _no_. I can’t _talk to her_ —”

“That’s too bad, cause she’s a good listener.”

“How do you know this? How are you even friends with her? How do _I_ not know this? No one ever tells me anything!”

“I did tell you. When you were half passed-out with the flu that one time. I figured you’d be more receptive if you didn’t know what I was saying. And less likely to have a heart attack.”

“That was like—last year!”

“Yup.”

“You’re a conniving little— _conniver_ , Tim.”

“Cass picks up weird phrases like that all the time, too. It’s probably best you’re not dating.”

“Dude, no – how can you _say_ that about my soul mate?”

“Soul mate? You don’t even talk to her, Jay – by your own admission. You’re crushing from afar. What do you even know about her?”

“I know her favourite ice cream is chocolate, and she likes exercise and she likes stories, but not actually _reading_ – but that’s fine, because I _do_ , so I can just read _to_ her, and I know her birthday is in January.”

“You learned none of that from her; you got it by stalking her Facebook page.”

“Hey – it’s not stalking when we’re friends.”


	56. Neapolitan Goodness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30 Oct 2015.
> 
> Be forewarned, this is both incomplete and really short.

Jason looked at his own, barely touched cup of Neapolitan goodness, feeling a little guilty.

He’d been on about something he could hardly remember, now, and Cass had been paying attention to his rambling rather than enjoying her treat, probably wishing that (he’d get to the end so she could comment and they could move on, or, more likely) he’d shut up so they could just eat instead in silence.

Now she had no more ice-cream at all, and Jason didn’t know what to say.

He’d offer to walk back with her and buy her a new one, but the vendor had nearly been on his way just as Jason and Cassandra had both come up to him from opposite ends. She’d gotten the last of the man’s chocolate supply besides, and Jason didn’t know her well enough to assume she’d like his mix of flavours, or he’d offer to share. He’d gotten several scoops in his cup and they hadn’t melted much, the cold Gotham air preserving them.

There was at least some chocolate she could have…

Maybe enough for a scoop, or two—

“Don’t eat that yet,” he said, too loud, hand raised against Cassandra bringing her cone to her mouth.

She’d shrugged, forlorn, at the mess on the ground, and seemed to have resigned herself to her lack of ice-cream, but, Jason—

“I…I have an idea,” he mumbled, a little self-conscious suddenly, as she paused, gaping up at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what happened with Cassandra's ice-cream, was a group of streetkids on rollerblades and skateboards or something, rushing past and basically knocking into her so her chocolate scoop fell from its cone. Sads. I didn't quite know how to write that, though; it wasn't working, which is why the scene starts right after that. I meant to add it into the narrative, but I see I didn't :/
> 
> Spoiler:  
> Jason's idea is to lead her up to the roof, and then he'd share the chocolate part of his ice-cream with her.  
> I was also going to write something about rats or birds or something, eating the scoop that had fallen. *shrug*


	57. Loitering ch10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 31 Oct 2015.

_the burden of brotherhood_

* * *

“It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it's mine.”

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

 

Jason shut the door at his back and leaned against it, his hand lingering on the handle a few moments longer.

He felt drained, and defeated, after how long they’d spent talking, but saying nothing.

…

Jason hated to think coming had been a pointless endeavour, but…

Red Hood had more work to do, and, while things felt clearer, if more painful, Jason Todd’s life was more upside-down now than it ever had been before. Because despite all the talk, nothing had actually changed, had it?

Jason pressed his palms to his closed eyes and sunk to the floor.

The lights in the hallway had an orange glow to them that was making his head throb.

…

Or maybe that was the long day.

“…Shit,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“I’d reprimand your language, sir…” Alfred’s voice drifted through a sudden ring in Jason’s ears. He hadn’t even heard the butler approach. “But…I suppose you’re old enough now to know better.”

A breathy laugh passed his lips and Jason lowered his hands and raised his head, meeting Alfred’s weathered old gaze, “One would think, Al,” he mumbled.

Alfred held out a glove-less hand for him to take and Jason didn’t hesitate, adding his other to Alfred’s wrist as he pushed himself to his feet more than pulling up with the butler’s strength.

Alfred was by no means a weak man, Jason knew, but…

Not for the first time he was struck with the thought – what the hell was all of this, doing to _him_?

Alfred who had pretty much taken the place of – well, never _that_ —stepped into the role—of a little eight year old boy’s parents – mom and dad both – at the drop of a—pair of bleeding bodies—hat?

No questions asked.

When Bruce told him of his intentions to wear a bat-styled suit and scale rooftops at night – what questions had the butler posed? What arguments had they had? How many, before Alfred had agreed to help Bruce, if he hadn’t from the first?

When Bruce planned to adopt Dickiebird – how many questions did Alfred have for him then?

When Jason himself had come along? When he had died?

Tim, when he’d wormed his way in?

Fuckit – every fucking moment since all this shit started—

“Al…” Jason began, wondering at how he’d never thought – had he ever? – to ask this, before—only, he found, even if he had thought to before, he couldn’t ask that. Not of Alfred. “How…” he dropped his gaze, squeezed Alfred’s old hand still between both his own, “Are you?”

“You’ve already asked, sir,” faint amusement coloured the butler’s tone, but it was a pale thing. “I dare say not much has changed in twenty-four hours,” he patted the back of Jason’s hand, and the younger man nodded, loosened his grip, allowing Alfred to slip his hand free.

Jason stuffed his own in his pockets.

“Has it, sir?” the old man prodded, tone discreet, and—

Jason could feel the heat returning to the backs of his eyes, blinked it away. He shook his head, not looking up. A beat passed, before he could say, “I’m sorry, Alfred, I just—”

“Indeed, sir,” the butler cut him off, not unkindly, briefly squeezing Jason’s shoulder. He said nothing more and Jason, liberated from any obligation to explain himself or divulge any of his conversation with Bruce, finally looked up to meet the old man’s gaze.

There was a deep, if quiet, understanding there.

Alfred nodded, thus, and turned down the hall. Jason followed just behind, letting himself be escorted to the front door as though Jason had presented the family’s most loyal member with a thorough, impressive argument completely justifying why he wasn’t about to stay, and spend the night at—

Home.

Where his father was sick. And dying.

The way a good son was expected— _supposed_ —to do.

…

…

…

…

“Alfred—” Jason stopped, the silence hanging in the hallway an unexpectedly welcome medication for his and Bruce’s words from earlier. Weighted but not heavy, and filled, not with his pained shrieks or his real mother’s hitching sobs in his ears, but with nothingness, and release he’d been so filled to the brim with he’d hardly realized how far they’d walked until his eye caught sight of the door. “Can we—?” Dickie’s room at his back. “Could I…take a look?” he barely whispered, apprehensive at the prospect.

Alfred had stopped short at the request, and half-turned toward Jason, hands still clasped behind his back. The butler watched him, for a moment, and Jason couldn’t think of what he might have seen, before Alfred nodded once, “I suppose a small detour is…not to be sneezed at.”

The quirk at the corner of Jason’s mouth, and the raise of one eyebrow at the phrase did not escape the butler’s notice as Alfred crossed the hall toward the young lad’s old door and took hold of the handle. It hadn’t been locked since Jason was discovered alive and vengeful in a familiar alley one cloudy night.

While Master Tim had never, to Alfred’s knowledge, set a foot inside his predecessor’s former quarters, Tim’s successor had had no qualms or delusions of respect over it. Indeed, Alfred had caught the once youngest of his ward’s brood inside their lost Robin’s room on many occasions – rifling through a fifteen-year-old’s forgotten trinkets, possessions, obsessions—books.

He’d confessed, once, in a manner that sounded nothing like confessing, of course, that no one, save Alfred, ever looked for him in the formerly deceased Robin’s room and that was, sometimes, why he preferred it.

Why it intrigued him.

Alfred did not divulge that he only looked for the boy in this particular room because he’d discovered him there the first time by pure coincidence, and thus knew where to find him again – for Alfred knew just as well as Master Damian had, the fascination behind this particular bedroom, and the yearning feeling of being simultaneously lost and found it offered.

Alfred would be lying if he said he was not hoping, like Master Dick did, that they could place this once lost piece of their familial puzzle back into a spot where it fit perfectly, and while it was plain that it would take more than an entire afternoon and evening’s conversing to persuade Master Jason to stay, Alfred was, deviously, hopeful some physical evidence of the lamentable emptiness his absence had left in their lives – Bruce’s particularly – might come closer to bringing him home.

Alfred turned down the handle of his boy’s old bedroom, thus, and swung the door open with his back to it, watching Jason from the corner of his eye.

Apprehension lingered in the young man’s gaze, if not the firm set of his jaw; determined – precisely as he had been, at twelve years old. He hadn’t known what to expect then and, Alfred knew, Jason didn’t know what to expect now, either. The same impersonal guest room as years ago, with its thick curtains drawn, hiding the sun from nothing more than a bed and a desk with a chair, and an old, empty bookcase?

Jason only paused briefly at the threshold, a familiar heaviness leaning against his soul, weighing him down and pushing him forward in equal measure, before he strode into the room as if it still belonged to him—only to stop abruptly a handful of paces inside.

A strangled noise caught in his throat and Jason crossed his arms tight over his chest, eyes darting around – over the creased burgundy covers on his bed, the cream-coloured pillows at the head, dented as if someone had sat on them—

—his old guitar in the corner just on the other side—

—dark curtains pulled back to let the light in—

—the desk across from his bed, the bookcase against the adjacent wall—

—and he could see—

—the way he’d slide across the carpet in his chair from the desk to the bookcase and back—

“It’s—still,” he started, twisted in Alfred’s direction without taking his eyes off the room, “It’s still all the same,” it was a statement, not a question, and he sounded—startled—to his own ears. “ _Why_?”

Alfred didn’t answer at once, was too quiet, and Jason spun, all the way around, to face him.

Alfred appeared more solemn than usual, his gaze on the floor and his silver brows knit together.

For the life of him, Jason couldn’t remember what Alfred had looked like before – before Jason had died. How much younger had he been? How much younger had he _looked_? How much _deeper_ had the lines on his old face gotten as the years had slipped past?

How many _more_ before—

—

Jason swallowed thickly.

“Master Bruce—” Alfred started, but stopped, uncertain. “Well. This was _your_ room, sir,” he said at last, more composed. He looked up, “It will always be yours, sir, whether you choose to live in it, or not.”

Jason couldn’t keep Alfred’s gaze, the tightness in his throat only tightening more. He looked away – turned away again – scrubbing a hand through his hair, briefly tugging.

There was an old record player on a small table by the window seat – wide and filled with pillows Jason didn’t remember owning – all his records and CD’s haphazardly scattered on the floor around the table, books with their spines bent lying on the cushions—

“Then why does it look so—” he stepped forward, feeling incredibly out of place – more than he had on the porch, or in the foyer downstairs, or in Bruce’s room—

“Occupied…?” he breathed, eyes falling onto a stack of bound paper on the bed and his feet moving automatically closer.

He fingered the corner of the first page—

 _Beauty and the Beast_.

“Whilst Master Bruce has an impressive collection of literature,” Alfred said, coming up beside him, his old eyes on Jason’s haphazardly constructed collection of fairy tales. “They are not quite suitable for a novice reader, as opposed to many of yours, and, Miss Cassandra does, admittedly, enjoy the atmosphere in your room, sir. I don’t quite have the heart to reprimand her for it,” Alfred added, almost conspiratorially, and the corner of Jason’s mouth quirked up before he could catch himself. “In any case,” Alfred shrugged, straightening, and Jason narrowed his eyes at the butler – he knew that look, “Miss Cassandra is eager to improve her reading skills, and, whilst your penmanship left something to be desired,” Alfred looked pointedly at the hand-made excuse for a book, “I directed her to your excellent collection of audio material to accompany it.”

Jason’s expression changed at once, mouth open in a stunned gape as he stared at the butler – and there it was, the barest shadow of amusement round the old man’s mouth that may as well have been a white-toothed grin on anyone else’s face.

“ _Alfred_ ,” Jason said, just short of a groan, “You _didn’t_ ,” but he’d already looked back at the window seat and was striding around the double-bed towards it even as Alfred answered—

“Well, sir, I couldn’t very well deprive the girl of developing her reading abilities, now could I?”

Jason had found the old yellow walkman – something of Dick’s when he’d been a kid – still in the same condition as it had been the last time he’d seen it, little bats scribbled all over its yellow surface in permanent black marker and all. It sported a newer set of earphones than the ones Jason vaguely recalled, as he held one up to his ear and pressed “Play” on the device. It started and stopped, however, with a whirr, and Jason popped the cover open to easily slip out the cassette inside and turn it around, before, with some added chagrin this time, he pressed “Play” again—

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and then—

 _“Peter Pan, written by J.M. Barrie; read to you by—uh—yeah, no, you don’t have to know—um. Okay. Ahem. ‘Chapter one: Peter Breaks Through... All children, except one, grow up—’”_ Jason couldn’t help but chuckle, and smile, glancing briefly at Alfred as he listened to his own voice—

_“—One day when she was two years old she was playing in the garden—”_

Jason’s gaze drifted over the books on the window seat, the records and CD’s at his feet, a little stack of more cassettes he hadn’t even noticed before—

He’d forgotten about this. He’d forgotten he used to sit on this seat with a book in his lap and the nightstand with his radio pulled closer so he could talk into the speaker while he read aloud—

_“—I suppose she must have looked rather delightful—”_

—putting on airs for the heck of it as he spoke, and bending his voice to pretend at playing one character or another—

 _“—‘Oh,_ why _can't you remain like this for_ eve’— _oh, come_ on _—”_

Jason choked on half a laugh, half a sudden shortness of breath as his young voice pitched unexpectedly high, dipped deep. His knees buckled without permission, teenage Jason’s throat-clearing cough falling away as the earphone dropped from between his numb fingers.

“Sir?” Alfred’s concerned expression filled Jason’s vision when he finally looked up, though he didn’t remember looking down, or _sitting down_ , for that matter. He was on the edge of the window seat, however, with Alfred bent forward in front of him, one hand behind his back and the other on Jason’s shoulder.

“S’ry,” Jason mumbled, and ducked his head – the walkman lay at his feet, popped open to reveal the stopped cassette inside. He let out a breath in a huff, like he was pushing his soul off a high-rise. “I—I didn’t mean to—” what even? Faint? Blackout? He scrubbed at his face with both hands, combed his fingers back through his hair as Alfred’s hand lifted from his shoulder. The weight of it lingered a moment longer, though.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” Alfred said quietly, and Jason chanced another look at him. Really looked, this time. Alfred stood regal and proper, as he always had for as long as Jason had known him – hands at his back, shoulders set, chin raised even as he was looking down at Jason now – ‘at,’ though, never ‘on.’ “I understand how this is likely somewhat… _overwhelming_ for you, sir.”

“Heh,” Jason tilted his head in agreement, looked away as he did. “No kidding…”

“I never do, sir,” Alfred said, and Jason chuckled properly, grinning up at the man.

Not for the first time, a coil of guilt spun around his insides squeezed tighter, and he swallowed, thickly. “Alfred…” he started, serious, and had to glance away again for a moment. He licked his lips. ‘Overwhelming’ could not begin to describe it.

The barrage of memories from the moment he’d set foot in the manor had been terrifying, but not for their presence so much as for their overpowering nature. He’d been expecting, when he could, finally, no longer postpone the confrontation, to see only the worst memories from his time in the manor. They were often at the back of his mind, vague and imprecise, a feeling more than an image, but they drove him, on top of all the wrong Bruce and his brood had done Jason since his death and resurrection.

He _was_ overwhelmed. Been overwhelmed to find so many content memories – in the foyer, on the staircase, down hallways, in Bruce’s chair – so many…happy— _safe_ —feelings he’d forgotten existed.

He’d waded through the strangeness, done what he’d come for, though – thought he’d been doing well, until—

—

—

—they were memories, but for all that they felt safe, and warm and _real_ , they had not seemed it, not until Jason realised—

—it was _him_. It was truly _him_ – _his_ voice, a young kid, in his ear, and it was proof – that he’d _existed_ in this house, had _lived_ here, had _things_ here that were _his_ , and there was _proof_ that they were his and he’d been _here_ , and it wasn’t all someone else’s or some fantasy, some illusion, or his equally insane not-family humouring his own madness—

He’d been _real_. The little kid he was convinced was no longer in him—

He was here. In this abandoned bedroom. Among his things. His voice. His existence. Still hung in the air.

‘Overwhelming’ did not _begin_ to describe it.

“Did I ever…” he trailed off, took a breath, “Did I ever apologize…?”

“Whatever for, sir?” Alfred asked, sounding almost genuinely curious and perplexed.

Jason’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, come on, Alfred,” he said, and looked up at the butler only to find him smiling ever so slightly. Jason swallowed.

Alfred sat carefully down on the edge of the bed opposite Jason, letting his smile linger as he replied, “I believe you did, sir,” a pause, “More than once, in fact.”

Jason breathed out through his nose, nodding to himself as he looked away again – let his gaze slide over the room at large—

Alfred watched the young man get to his feet almost laboriously, as if he was unsure of what to do next or where to go, his eyes on the room and his brows knit in thought. He made as if to move away from the window, before he stopped and stooped to pick up the fallen walkman and earphones, placing them back on the window seat where he’d found them. Only then did he wander off, sliding the tips of his fingers across a stack of CD’s, trailed the wall, all the while scanning the room with his blue-green eyes.

Alfred had gotten to his feet, was watching Jason take in the state of his surroundings.

There hung an old hoodie over the back of the boy’s chair Alfred had never had the heart – or the guts – to hang in the closet, which occupied a corner to the left of the door, the wall between covered from floor to ceiling with framed movie posters.

Miss Cassandra had left a pair of flip-flops under the desk, Alfred noticed, and, in a bundle on the seat of the chair was—

“This isn’t mine…” Jason mused, picking up the small jacket by the collar and holding it out to look at it.

“Indeed, sir,” Alfred stepped forward at once, hand held out for the garment and his old heart feeling suffocated in his chest, “I’ll take it, and, return it to its proper closet, sir—”

“Right,” Jason mumbled, handing it over without argument. Alfred folded it over one arm, his hand lingering on the smooth fabric too long. He stepped back, out of Jason’s space, and watched the boy turn to his bookcase, fingers sliding over the titles as if he was checking to see if everyone he remembered was still there. He paused, at one or two, slid them out to read the back, or flipped through the book until he came to a dog-eared page or a slip of paper pretending to be a bookmark, pausing on the page to read, what Alfred morbidly assumed, was the last sentence he’d stopped at.

“You’re welcome to any of them, Master Jason,” Alfred said. “They are yours, after all.”

“Yeah?” Jason replied, but the book he pulled out and stuffed inside his jacket was a small, black leather-bound notebook, not a novel. “I think, I,” he rubbed his hands on his jeans, poked at a stack of books on the desk, shifted a piece of paper, “I’ve had enough of the twilight-zone, Alfie. Um, can we—?” he half-gestured the door, and Alfred nodded.

Jason followed the butler outside, shutting the door at his back.

“That’s…” he started, before he could stop himself. He pointed, at the jacket Alfred had slung over one forearm. It was black and small, and had no business being in Jason’s old room since it wouldn’t have fit him the last time he was in there and was obviously, thus, not his from times gone by, “…Damian’s, isn’t it?” he asked, quietly, not intending to make Alfred any more uncomfortable than his tightly set jaw and firmly pressed lips suggested he was, but unable to resist the overwhelming wave of curiosity.

Alfred nodded curtly in affirmation, and Jason repeated the motion.

“…Kid hung out in my room, too?” he asked after a moment, genuinely confused.

“Hm. Master Damian…” Alfred paused, only almost imperceptibly, before saying very deliberately, “Enjoyed the quiet, I believe.”

“Oh, sure,” Jason mumbled, looking back at the door over his shoulder, feeling…odd. The kid hadn’t been that much of a menace the last time Jason had seen him, granted, but he’d never been singing Jason’s praises either, not even with their last meeting, so—hearing the kid had hung out in his once-bedroom for “the quiet” of it – or any reason for that matter – definitely constituted a feeling of _oddness_.

It only dawned on Jason then—

“Alfred, is…Damian’s room—?”

“Will always be Master Damian’s room, sir.”

Jason felt like a bobble-head, the way he just nodded again, but the coiled guilt round his gut was squeezing tighter again.

By the time he’d followed Alfred downstairs into the foyer he’d convinced himself that, for all that Bruce was one hell of a complicated father (-figure and _actual_ father, both), he certainly didn’t quite _deserve_ to die, without…well. It wasn’t up to Jason to tell him the truth, even if he’d had a hand in it, but—

The man deserved _something._ Not dying was sort of ideal, and, Jason fretted, taking one step in Alfred’s wake after another, there was only one option he could see towards achieving that end.

“I shall wrap up something for you from dinner, sir,” Alfred mused aloud, “For the road.”

He was all out of favours though, and he was half-planning on going back on his word besides, but—

“Thanks, Al, but…I’m fine, really.”

—maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they did, and, moreover, he’d owe her a favour again, _and_ , Jason thought, Talia would probably love being owed another favour—

“Just kind of want to go home…”

—it wasn’t often anymore Jason went to her with “I owe you’s—”

“Leaving without saying good-bye, Little Wing?”

Jason stopped, his thoughts trailing off abruptly at the intrusion of Dick’s voice at his back.

“I’m offended,” the older man added on, jokily, if tentative.

Jason spared a glance at Alfred at his side before looking back at the door handle in front of him. They’d gotten all the way to the front doors, and now this.

“Perhaps something for the road after all, sir,” Alfred said primly, turning on his heel even as Jason started on an ignored protest.

“…Yeah…sure,” he relented, mumbling at Alfred’s back as the old butler marched down the hallway past the stairs toward the kitchen. Only after he’d disappeared through the doorway did Jason stuff his hands in his jacket pockets, turning properly to face Dick.

The older man had plainly just come up from the cave, fresh from patrol, damp hair sticking to his forehead, and a few new bruises starting to colour his jawline to go with the split in his lip he was poking at with his tongue.

“Rough night?” Jason asked, for something to say, and Dick shrugged.

“No more than usual… You?”

“Same old…” Jason mumbled.

Dick nodded solemnly, hands in his jeans pockets.

Jason shifted his weight, feeling awkward in the heavy silence. He certainly couldn’t leave before Alfred came back with a plate and Dick wasn’t making any move to leave, so—

He felt stuck again, uncertainty of what to say—

“So…you and Bruce talked, then?” but of course Dickie had an idea.

Jason huffed, “Yeah. We had words.”

“You fought?” Dick asked, surprised – he’d told Bruce to be nice, but really that hadn’t been necessary. Bruce hadn’t wanted an argument with Jason, Dick knew that much—

“No,” Jason answered, meeting his eyes and quickly looking away again. He shifted his weight, “It wasn’t like _that_ , I…it was…” his eyes flicked toward the staircase, “We had a _colourful_ discussion,” he said more decisively, and glared at Dick as he added, “And I don’t care to give you a play-by-play.”

Dick almost looked taken aback for a second, but he quickly schooled his expression into something seemingly _understanding_ , “Yeah, okay,” he said, with a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to _pry_ , Jay, I just—want to know that you two are… _okay_?”

Jason swallowed thickly and pulled his hands from his pockets, half turning away as he crossed his arms. He sighed, “…It’ll take more than that, Dickiebird…” he said quietly.

“What—why?” Dick asked, “I thought the two of you were going to _fix_ things—”

“Can’t, Dickie…” Jason said at the wall, and Dick scoffed at his back, letting out a frustrated sound.

“I don’t _understand_ , Jason,” he said, and took a quick breath, “Bruce is—” Jason ducked his head, briefly shutting his eyes tight. “Well, _you know_ …” he said carefully. “You were in there practically _all day_ and you’re telling me—” a breathy, humourless, incredulous laugh passed his lips, “— _nothing’s changed_?”

Jason took a deep breath of his own, turning around, blinking, “ _Look,_ Dick – I’m _sorry_ , okay? I _can’t just_ —” he cut off, arms tightening against his chest, and his gaze turning from Dick to scowl at a dark corner in the foyer instead. The light overhead was dim, flickering irregularly. He didn’t want to see Dick’s response to his words no matter how dim the lighting, though. He hadn’t expected to – he’d _hoped_ not to – come across Dick – or anyone else – on his way out the door, and he felt too unprepared to explain himself properly. The words in his head were a mess – even more so coming out of his mouth.

“It’s not as _simple_ as that,” he tried, “A _lot_ of things— _happened_ , and I—I’m sorry that he’s—” Jason licked his lips, turned the other way, “But I can’t just forgive him for—it’s not that e _asy_ , it’s not _fair_ —it wouldn’t be _honest_ —” he stopped short with a sharp intake of breath, blinking furiously at his feet.

“Okay,” Dick said into the abrupt quiet, sniffing loudly, “ _Okay_ , I— _understand_ , you don’t have to…” Dick trailed off, and Jason shook his head at the floor—

“But, Jason, are you—will we see you here again, will you—?”

“No.”

“Jason,” Dick said, and Jason couldn’t help but scowl – he sounded like he was talking someone off a ledge, “I get it, it’s a lot to ask, to straighten everything out in one conversation, no matter how long it goes on, but—there’s still – we still have some, _time_ , before—”

“ _Stop it,_ Dick!” Jason barked, facing the older man and feeling like a kid again – a half-baked fantasy coming to mind, of him storming bravely down the cave steps demanding of the Bat and his first bird that they quit their arguing, and, if his presence was so damn inconvenient he’d pack up his things and leave and Dick could have Robin back, never mind what Jason had told him his first night out, running into Nightwing in the middle of the gauntlet. Jason half-remembered making it down the first couple steps before he’d turned around and sprinted back to his room on shaky legs with tears in his eyes – he didn’t _want_ to give Robin back.

“I just don’t want you to _regret this_ ,” Dick said, like Nightwing, despite the tightness of his voice.

“I _won’t_ ,” Jason replied through grit teeth, his hands fisted at his sides and his chest stinging. He’d swiped his arms through the air turning, and shit, maybe he’d popped a stitch.

“I can’t believe that, Jay…” Dick shook his head. “Does—Bruce _doesn’t_ mean that little to you—”

“ _I’m_ the one who means nothing to _him_ —”

“That’s not true – you’re _his son_!”

“I’m his _soldier_ ,” Jason countered, voice cracking on the word and he recoiled in surprise, only to scowl at the expression on Dick’s face. “That’s all I ever was, and it’s all I’ll ever be,” Jason carried on, as firmly as he could, even as Dick was shaking his head in disagreement again, “ _No amount_ of talking will ever ‘ _fix_ ’ this, Dick, and it doesn’t matter—we’ve said everything there was to say—”

“But nothing’s _changed_ ,” Dick repeated, desperately taking a step closer. Jason straightened up, fingers clenching tighter.

“Aren’t you listening – nothing _will_ ,” Jason insisted, “And I can’t _stay here_ , _pretending_ , Dick! I can’t pretend to be his _son_ , when I know I’m not, and I can’t _stay here_ like some loyal family member while he’s up there breathing his _last damn breath_ – I _refuse_ , that’s not fair—”

“But you _are_ family, Jason – why won’t you get that through your _thick head_?” Dick snapped, his infamous temper for a moment making itself known.

“ _What_ do you _care_?” Jason barked back, “ _Why_ is this suddenly _so_ damn important to you, Dick? You wanted nothing to do with me _before_ —b- _before_ I died, _and_ after I came back – I was nothing but a _menace_ to you, a killer—”

“ _I know_ ,” Dick interrupted, and Jason had missed when he’d moved but he was right in front of him now, hands raised like he meant to touch, but didn’t, and Jason had backed up so much he could almost feel the door behind him, “I _know_ , Jason, and—I’m _sorry_ about that, but—” Dick’s fingers curled into tight fists as he blinked, looked away and licked at the split in his lip, “ _You_ —” there was a sardonic laugh in his tone he couldn’t hide, something bitter and resentful, “You tried to kill Tim,” he managed at last, and looked back up at Jason—

There was anger in his eyes, rooted as deep as any sadness, “And I,” he shook his head. “There is a little part of me, Jay, that will _never_ be able to—to _forgive you_ for that—”

Jason swallowed impulsively against the tightness in his throat, fingers twitching with the desire to do something – push Dick away, run off, say something, defend—

—but there was little he could say in his own defence that Dick would believe or accept, he knew, because—

Dick wasn’t entirely wrong.

He _had_ tried to kill Tim—or, or _hurt him_ , at least, but, even that much—Jason himself wasn’t convinced it was all notorious Pit-madness that made him do it, and he wasn’t—

—sure that, if he had to do it over—

—he’d do it different—

—and Dick wouldn’t—

— _like_ that—

“—and, and Da—” Dick cut off, like the air in his throat wasn’t enough to form the name with, and Jason had the sudden urge to—

—

—he could remember, when he was a kid, just starting out, and Dick flashed him a smile or told him he’d done good, how the world just—

—seemed a little brighter, because Jason fucking Todd had made his predecessor— _proud_ —

“Dickie—” Jason said, uncertainly, barely a whisper—

Dick shook his head – he’d looked away, shut his eyes and lowered his hands at some point, but they were still tight fists, only _just_ not shaking—

“You disappointed me, Jason,” Dick said, quiet. Jason flinched without having meant to, and couldn’t quite manage to school his features into something more impassive when Dick met his eyes. “But I know it wasn’t all you, and I had no right to—to really _be_ disappointed in you or angry, at _you_ , we weren’t—” he breathed in a steadying breath and combed stiff fingers through his hair while Jason stared, not knowing what to say one way or another, “We _weren’t_ family, not _really_ , before you…you know,” Dick shrugged, “And I know that was more _my_ fault than yours – you, you came in at a bad time, and, you were just one more thing I could hold against Bruce, and I didn’t _mean to_ , Jay, but you were wearing my colours and my name after Bruce had _fired_ me because he was too concerned for my _safety_ —”

Jason breathed, Dick’s words twisting unintentionally in his head. Abruptly he found his voice, “I don’t want to hear this, Dick—”

“But I _want_ you to – you _need_ to understand. You want to know _why_ I’m so insistent; let me explain—”

“You’re guilty,” Jason said, and the words were unexpectedly heavy on his tongue. Dick blinked at him, surprised. “You feel guilty. For the way you treated me, when I was a kid – for not being my ‘ _big brother_ ’ like you think you should have been – and this— _me_ , _now_ —” he gestured himself, and chuckled, scornful, “This is your second chance—to make it _right_?” it was less of a question and more a derisive statement. Jason scowled, even as Dick shook his head—

“No, Jay—”

“Don’t _pretend_ , Dick,” Jason cut him off, and he did push at Dick’s shoulders then, creating some distance between them, “ _You’re_ the one who feels bad about the way things were,” he said, pointing a finger at Dick, “And would you look? Here I am!” he spread his arms, “Like coming back from the _damn dead_ was _just for you_ —”

“That’s _not_ what I meant—”

“What else is there _to mean_? You screwed up with me—”

“ _Yes_ , I did, but—”

“Well, I didn’t come back for you—”

“I wasn’t implying—”

“—or _Bruce_ —”

“ _Jason_ —”

“Or _any_ of you—” Jason said, shoving Dick back with one hand as he came closer, and Dick, exasperated and frustrated, backed up, expression tired and annoyed, an impatient breath leaving him in a huff—

“—so you could get a chance at _feeling better_ , at _fixing_ your screw-ups – you got to do that with my _replacement_ ,” Jason hissed, teeth grit, and in the wake of his conversation with Bruce, everything about Tim seemed to sting again—

“You’re not _listening_ to me—” Dick tried again, moving to close the gap between them—

“I came back for _me_!” Jason declared, grabbing Dick by the shirt and shoving without letting go, Dick catching Jason’s wrist with one hand in turn, gaze hard, defiant, even as he let Jason talk, “So _I_ could do good, so _I_ could fix things – so I could _do_ ,” his grip tightened, “What _you_ won’t, because _someone, has to_. And you just _don’t_ _get that_ ,” he emphasised, shoving hard and letting go of Dick’s shirt as he made to move back, twist out of the older man’s grip, but Dick held fast, pulling Jason closer and grabbing onto his elbow with his other hand to keep him both steady and in place—

Jason pushed back again, heat in his neck and his ears, and his chest, “I’m not your chance at _redemption_ or some shit—”

“Aren’t you, though?” Dick challenged, shoving at Jason’s arm hard enough he had to take a step back to steady himself. “Wasn’t that your _entire_ plan when you came back to Gotham, Jay? To give Bruce a chance at making amends with you? You or the Joker, isn’t that what you said?”

“Well he didn’t _pick me_ , did he?” Jason retorted, closing the gap between them and pushing at Dick with his forearm, but the acrobat held his footing, grip tightening again on Jason’s wrist and elbow when he made to move back—

“Are you _done_ , then?” Dick asked.

“ _Let go_ ,” Jason replied, plainly threatening, but Dick didn’t waver.

“ _Promise_ you’ll listen,” he demanded, a sliver of desperation lightening his tone, “ _Please_ , Little Wing—”

Jason scowled at the nickname, as he so often did, but Dick’s expression didn’t change and his eyes didn’t soften as he looked up at Jason. Despite being the shorter man Dick was no less intimidating.

“Fine,” Jason scowled, “ _What?_ ”

“You’re not wrong,” Dick said bluntly, and Jason snorted and rolled his eyes, looking away as he blinked and soaked in the burn at his chest for something else to feel – he’d been half-hoping, at the back of his mind, that Dick would tell him he _wasn’t_ right; Dick wasn’t attempting to redeem himself, make himself _feel better_ with a second chance at being the big brother he felt guilty about never having been—

“I _do_ want to _fix_ things—”

“You can’t, it’s too late,” Jason cut in, no part of him prepared to hear the rest of that – not with his conversation with Bruce in the back of his mind and the feeling of every reminder the manor evoked in his gut or the weight of his own, defiant plans on his shoulders, “That kid is _dead_ , Dick – there’s no _fixing_ things with him—”

“But that’s not true, Jason – a part of him is still in you— _listen_ ,” Dick insisted, trying to catch Jason’s eye when he looked farther away still, exasperated, “You _still_ want to _help_ , to do the right thing, and as much as you claim we’re not your family, you _still_ care about us—”

“If you’re talking about your precious little Tim,” Jason started derisively as he moved to relieve his arm from Dick’s grip again—

“ _Not just Tim_ ,” Dick let go, but the look he gave Jason made the younger man pause.

“I don’t—”

“Damian,” Dick all but choked, his eyes at once filling with unshed tears. He barked a laugh, sniffed and straightened his shoulders in an attempt to compose himself and Jason—

—took a step back as though the physical distance would repeal the guilt—

“I was there, remember?” Dick said when he could manage it. Jason couldn’t find enough air in his lungs for anything but breathing or he might have derailed the conversation with some snide thing or another. “You cut me off and got there first – restrained Tim so he wouldn’t—wouldn’t _follow_ and get himself hurt, more than he already was, and then you went in, and—tried to, tried to save him—”

“Crap ton of good that did,” Jason spoke through a stuttering exhale.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick replied, and Jason had to stop himself from saying anything more, because Dick didn’t know—

“I _saw your face_ ,” Dick continued, determined for Jason to understand, “When you came out of the fire with him—i-in your arms, and I—”

—it was only because Jason had been involved at all that Damian—

“—I _knew_ you’d tried everything _you could_ , and, and you _wished_ he wasn’t—”

—was dead—

“…dead.”

Jason breathed, the air somehow burning his insides, backing up as he put a hand to his chest where, miracle of all miracles, he wasn’t bleeding after all—

“You looked just like I remembered you…” Dick added. “And I was as grateful as I was— _hurt_. I’m not betting on another miracle that will bring _him_ back, Jason, I’m not that naïve – I _don’t know_ why, or how, _you_ came back; if it was luck, or a fluke, if it’ll ever happen to anyone ever again, if it’s just you, somehow, but—but I already lost you once and I didn’t even know it for the longest time, and when I found out, _yes_ – there was _so much_ regret. So many things I wished I’d _said to you_ , or _done_ with you, _taught you_ —

“And I understand – you’re not _my_ second chance, I get that, but, you _are,_ _still,_ my little brother. I need you to—to _acknowledge_ that, or, or take it to heart, or – _do_ — _something_ —” Dick pled, his words echoing through Jason’s head, through the silence that followed—

—

—

“Dickie, I don’t—” but Dick breathed in through his nose, shoulders stiffening and his eyes closing tight, and Jason couldn’t, somehow, bear to finish that sentence—

“I can’t just—” he tried again, but stopped when Dick opened his eyes.

“Jason…you were a good kid,” he said, expression softening. “You’re a good kid now,” almost a laugh in his tone, “A good man. There is _no part of you_ , that’s _evil_ , or _insane_ ,” tentatively, Dick stepped closer, but Jason was slumped against the door, hand to his heart, pounding underneath his fingertips, and his eyes averted from Dick. “I can’t— _can’t_ condone your thinking half the time, your _methods_ ,” his tone sounded _strained_ , hurt, to Jason’s ears, admitting that, “But I—I don’t want to _change_ you, Jason, I just want you—I don’t want to _fight you_ , anymore…

“…Jay?”

Jason chanced a glace up, and Dick was standing right in front of him, brows knit and lips twisted into a painful frown.

“Whatever that was, _whoever_ that was – who tried killing Tim, and _Dami_ ,” he added in a whisper, “You’re not _him_ anymore. You might not be the same kid we lost as a teenager, Jason, but – you’re not the man who came back trying to take over as Batman, either.

“You’re my little brother, Jason,” a beat. “Tell me I’m not wrong, Little Wing.”

“I—” a masochistic part of him wanted to do the same thing he’d been doing all year – push and shove and deny, and, this time, since they were on the topic, do it in the worst possible way that would guarantee Dick never revisit this line of thinking, this avenue of peace, of brotherhood, between the two of them—

—all he had to do was confess—

— _I killed Damian_ —

—despite it only being true technically, or, from a different angle, technically untrue—

—regardless – if he was serious at all about keeping his distance from them, having nothing to do with them—he’d say it—

“You’re dinner, Master Jason, sir,” Alfred’s voice preceded him into the foyer proper, the butler’s footfalls following heavily in the wake of his words.

A more selfish part of Jason was fifteen years old and the world was bright in his eyes— _little brother_ —

A less hypocritical part of him wanted to confess, too, to the truth of the thing, but – honest as it was, it was breaking a promise, and, Jason didn’t know when or how it happened, but at some point, he’d turned into a big brother himself, and—

—being a big brother took precedence over being a little brother—

“I can be your little brother, Dick,” he said , low enough for Dick’s ears alone, although Alfred had stopped several feet away, allowing them another moment’s privacy. “I just can’t do it _right here_.”

A smile graced Dick’s lips and he put a hand to Jason’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, “I’ll take it,” he whispered back.

Allowing a smile to tug at his mouth in return, Jason straightened up and turned his expression on Alfred as the butler approached, Jason’s packaged dinner in hand. “Thanks, Al.”

The butler gave Jason’s chest a pointed look, politely suggesting he check his stitches at home. Jason nodded in acknowledgement, “Good night, Al. Dickie,” he added, reaching for the doorknob at his back.

“Travel safely, sir.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Little Wing. We’ll talk again, okay?” Dick added, as Jason slipped out the door and into the cool night air. “Don’t be a stranger,” Dick called after him, but Jason quickened his pace down the porch steps, across the thin blanket of snow without looking back until he was a good twenty paces away. Dick still stood in the doorway.

Jason waved, if somewhat half-heartedly, cowed by the guilt tight in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably noticed how much of an AU this is, by now, especially with regards to Damian's death. Spoiler: he did die in canon, but it was his...clone??? that killed him, on Talia's? orders?? I never actually read that arc, which is largely why I didn't use it in this fic. Damian dying in this story wasn't inspired by his death in canon, either, anyway; because, when I thought of it initially, I didn't know he'd died in canon. And then when I did discover it, I decided to go ahead and claim him dead in this fic anyway, but stick to my own idea for *how* it happened, because Reasons. :| Because Spoilers, I can't tell you what those reason *are* but they exist.  
> In case it's at all unclear, Damian got caught in a burning building, and that's how he died in this fic. Because Jason was there, attempting to save him? And bringing his, however, burnt remains, out of the building, Dick has a lot more faith in his first little brother, and that's why he's so adamantly trying to bridge the gap between Jason and the family.


	58. Loitering ch11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 March 2016.

_bearing bad news_

* * *

 “Our scars make us know that our past was for real”

― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

Jason slowed as he got off the staircase and turned into the hallway.

His was the last door, to the left – a figure slumped against the wall just on the other side of it, and Jason didn’t know what to think.

If they were waiting for anyone else in the hall they wouldn’t be next to _his_ door, but Jason didn’t recognize them from their build alone, and that was troubling.

Any distinguishable features were hidden by slightly too-big clothes. The hood of their jacket was pulled so low Jason couldn’t make out their face or hair as he approached; their hands were hidden in the sleeves, arms resting casually on raised knees – jeans dirty but not tattered, sneakers comfortably old…

Race and gender effectively disguised, but Jason would hazard a guess they were perhaps a teenager. A boy, potentially – by the clothes, but, if they were a kid off the street that was hardly an indication.

Jason was only a pace or two from the figure now, posture wary, eyes narrowed at their still form – _too_ still. They didn’t even appear to be breathing.

The thought had Jason sucking in a breath of his own, the air hissing through his teeth while his heart quickened a pace – he was suddenly and intently reminded of his mother—

Of Catherine—

Slumped forward against the alley wall behind their apartment building, not moving, barely breathing, her eyes rolling and her thin arms flailing as Jason tried to drag her to her feet—

—and then just tried to drag her, period—

—trying to get her back to their apartment—

—so he could take care of her—

—make her well again—

—if only she hadn’t done it in the _alley_ —

Jason shook his head, tightening his hold on his over-stocked grocery bag as he snapped himself from the memory.

He was getting better at ignoring them again.

They seemed to have followed him from the manor, filling the already occupied spaces of his mind with their thick, overbearing presence, making it harder to concentrate on anything else—

So he’d started paying attention to them – to how he could get them from filling his thoughts again.

He was getting better at it.

But the quiet, unmoving figure beside his door made him queasy – and then not just because they reminded him of his mother so much.

If it was a kid off the street that came to _his door_ , passed out _off a high_ – there was going to be _hell_ to pay.

Tim’s situation with the Joker and the case of the new drug had taken up too much of his time the past couple months, he dreaded to think other drug rings were going against the conditions he had _very_ rudely and _very_ explicitly drilled into their thick skulls years ago. He was blowing up every drug ring within a ten mile radius – _especially_ if they were his own – if it turned out this hooded body by his door was high to death.

Jason swallowed; feeling too uneasy as he finally stepped even closer to the figure, raising a boot at the body—

The notion that this was impolite came and went from the back of his mind long enough for him to hesitate, before he nudged the figure with the tip of his shoe, after all – nothing more than a quick poke to the shin—

There was no response, however.

Jason stood uncertainly for a moment, trying to remember if he’d ever found a body like this before – after Catherine—

He didn’t think so.

At least – no one this small. No one that looked like a kid. No one whose face he couldn’t see, whose situation he wasn’t well aware of—

Never anyone _right outside his door_ , where he wasn’t the Red Hood—

He was just _Jason_ here.

Jason with a seemingly sick or dead kid by his door.

…

…

Jason set the paper bag down and crouched next to the unmoving figure, leaning over to try and get a better look at their face. It was no use, though – head bowed and their over-sized hoodie pulled so low, there was no way to see without pulling back the hood. The openings of their sleeves were scrunched up into their palms, their hands fisted even though their shoulders were slumped and their arms relaxed. They seemed almost comfortably slouched against the wall, and then, as close as he was, squinting at the figure, Jason could hear—

—

—faintly—

—

— _snoring_.

He pulled back, blinking with surprise—

And then _relief_.

Not a dead body, then, at least.

He felt like sighing, and rolling his eyes at how living in the Narrows for so long had twisted his mind into assuming the worst things first—

But then, that was often what kept people alive in this part of Gotham, so.

There was that.

Speaking of which – just because the kid was asleep didn’t mean they weren’t drugged-up, and even if that wasn’t the case, what were they doing at Jason’s door anyway? He literally knew _no one_ – even remotely matching the kid’s imprecise appearance. And he shouldn’t be this close to a random stranger who just appeared by his door while he was out…like they were waiting for him.

Mentally berating himself for not showing more caution – and _very carefully_ _not_ allowing himself the excuse of, his mind being _elsewhere_ , which, regrettably, it was, but – Jason shifted back on his haunches to create a good distance without getting completely out of reach while he fingered the knife concealed in his boot and sat, settled at the ready to either attack or defend as needed.

It should not have been probable for any of the Red Hood’s enemies to discover his identity, much less where he lived, but – this figure beside his door was suggesting otherwise.

As far as he could tell, the kid was genuinely asleep, at least, and not faking it for a surprise attack.

Not well-trained, then, if this was meant as an attack – or an ambush, he considered, glancing back down the hallway—

—there were two more apartments on this floor and Jason knew the occupants were at work and school this time of day – an older, married couple who did volunteer work and a single mother raising a pair of too-quiet twins Jason sometimes had the legitimate pleasure of babysitting when their mother just _would not_ take no for an answer (convinced Jason got out of his apartment too little, had too little friends or close family, if any at all, and she’d be damned if she allowed him to live like that, so really, _she_ was doing _him_ the favour – she insisted)—

—if this kid was only a distraction while Jason’s enemies suddenly sprung him from all sides, but—

Another moment of waiting and _listening_ —

Jason started at the kid’s abrupt snore, and the way their arms twitched in their sleep, and he decided he was being too paranoid about this.

Chalk it up to spending half a day with Bruce.

Shit.

His conversation with the old man weighed as heavily on his chest as the still-healing stitches he’d gotten dangerously close to ripping open the past couple nights – going out with some of his more trusted men to locations Bruce had identified as the most likely areas for his drug to be stashed at.

They were creepy places – an old toy factory supposedly in the process of being revamped for use as something else, and a storage unit on the water stacked with coffins, and marionettes hanging from the ceiling, strings made of barbed wire and all their heads chopped off.

Among others.

…

Jason shook his head.

He needed to get better at putting that conversation behind him, too. Just as soon as this drug was off the street once and for all, it would be easier.

Shifting his weight, Jason raised his free hand carefully, and took a firm hold of his knife.

Better a little precautious – if paranoid – than sorry.

“ _Hey_ ,” he said loudly, quick and sharp, but the kid was still out like a light.

Jason huffed in annoyance, and nudged the kid’s leg, hard, almost startling himself again when they jerked awake, head and arms shooting up—

Jason tilted forward onto his knees – had the kid by the back of their hoodie and his knife drawn at them in a second, only to pause—

Tim’s eyes were wide and bright blue behind the parting in his too-long fringe.

He blinked, said, “Uh…” and lowered his gaze to Jason’s kris, raised just enough to be in his field of vision, before he looked up at Jason again.

Jason had more or less frozen in place, and was resisting the urge to slump his shoulders with some sort of relief that it was only Tim – _because_ :

_It was only Tim._

All that did was raise a dozen questions in Jason’s head, and they were all clambering to the forefront of his mind, desperate to be asked and answered.

But the most obvious response won out—

“Unholy _hell_ , Tim,” Jason snapped, not sure he wasn’t scolding the younger man.

He pulled back his hoodie, revealing more of Tim’s messy hair, and lowered the knife, side-eying the way Tim’s shoulders relaxed, and the tips of his fingers crawled out of their sleeves to drum at his knees. He was wearing fingerless gloves.

He’d tensed up as he’d woken, but not in the way Jason would have expected a _Bat_ to react. Ordinarily, Jason and his knife _should_ have been eating dirty hallway carpeting.

“Sorry,” Tim mumbled, eyes darting around like he was taking in his surroundings – like he’d forgotten where he was? “Did I…” he squinted. “I fell asleep, didn’t I?”

Jason scowled, “Evidently.”

He sheathed the knife, debated getting to his feet, but Tim had his eyes on his hands and was frowning, and Jason had questions besides.

Mostly ones along the lines of – how did Tim get there and how soon could he leave. Jason groaned, realising he needed to find a new place to live. Alfred’s knowledge of his safe house had compromised it earlier in the week, and now his _personal_ , _removed-from-vigilante-life apartment_ was an undisclosed location to _this_ little bat.

 _What_ the fucking _hell_ , even.

Jason stayed on his knees, thus, and snapped his fingers in front of Tim’s face. “You in there?”

Tim started, clearly caught in a daze, and met his eyes, “Yeah, it’s me, why?” he bumbled, short of breath, and blinked, and looked almost terrified. “I…” he looked at his hands like he didn’t recognize them. “Did I do something…?”

“Besides being a weird duck? I guess not,” Jason replied.

Tim gave him a look that was much more normal – for _him_ – one eyebrow raised. “Okay,” he said slowly, and relaxed a little more again.

He offered no explanation for his presence, and Jason was working up to demanding what the hell he was doing there, he really was, only—

“You look like the dead,” he stated instead, none too kindly. There were heavy bags under the kid’s eyes. He was too pale, his lips were too white and his eyes were too wide, his hair too long—and goodness gracious, was he _growing a tiny moustache?_ How old was Tim even? Was he old enough to do that? “Which, you know, coming from me should be telling you something.”

It was a terrible joke, Jason knew, and he wasn’t sure why he made it, but it had the desired effect at least—

An expression _other_ than semi-lifeless and dazed.

Tim’s eyes cut into his with a fierce glare not unlike the Bat’s, only – it plainly meant something different entirely. It was downright resentful, as opposed to Batman’s imposing and intimidating glower.

“Geez…” Jason mumbled, automatically leaning back a little.

Tim scowled away from him and then shifted, bracing his weight on his hands like he meant to push to his feet, but—

Jason liked having this conversation on the floor, frankly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, halting the younger man’s movements.

Tim sighed, and slumped back down.

“Loitering?” he suggested, with a tentative, crooked little smile.

Jason gave him a dry look, “Hardy-har-har.”

Tim looked around carefully, “It’s not really…a _hallway_ conversation? Can I…?” he inclined his head at the door, but didn’t move until Jason had mulled it over enough to nod his permission.

Jason stood, and might have offered a hand for the man, but he was on his feet in almost the same moment, straightening his hoodie and releasing his hands from the sleeves.

Jason had scooped up his groceries and balanced the bag on his hip as he fished out his keys and stuck one in the lock. “Explain how you found me while you’re at it,” he demanded as he shoved the door open with his shoulder – damn thing got stuck in winter.

“Alfred,” was Tim’s simple reply at his back while Jason made his way inside, disabling his alarms and crossing the sitting area to the kitchen – separated from the rest of the room by cabinets.

Jason threw up one hand in exasperation, mouthing “ _why_ ” at the ceiling, because how the hell had Alfred found him here? He’d thought he’d been so careful. Careful enough that it being a Bat by his door hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“And what, he sent you over?” Jason asked, dropping his groceries on a counter and ducking his head to see through the gap between counter and ceiling cabinets. Tim had shut the door behind him – and slipped in the chain – and was standing in the middle of the room with his hands at his sides, eyes scanning the apartment with a somewhat confused expression.

There wasn’t much to see – a small bookcase against one wall, a sofa at the opposite end with a coffee table, cluttered with Jason’s notes and his laptop, even though there was a perfectly good desk and an office chair next to the door where he could have been working. He’d gotten tired and annoyed at taking the three steps from the desk to the couch every time he got stuck with the case and opted for a nap, though, so eventually he’d just moved all his stuff over instead.

“No-one knows I’m here,” Tim replied, quietly – and, to Jason, it sounded like Tim was having a revelation, like he hadn’t known that until he’d said it aloud. The kid was watching the corners of Jason’s apartment like he expected something to jump at him – frowning when nothing did, like it was wrong that there wasn’t anything.

Jason stopped stuffing coffee and sugar into his cupboards – he’d used the last of what he’d brought from the old place through the night – and rounded the counters to face Tim properly.

“That’s intelligent,” he said dryly. “I thought you were the smart Robin?” he fished his phone from his back pocket, eyes on it instead of Tim. “How long have you been home – like a month?” he was dialling for Dick, because hell if he was going to be responsible for the kid disappearing a second time – even if he wasn’t technically _disappeared_ in the same way. Still. Dick would have an aneurism. He about said as much, “Do you have _any_ idea what that’ll do to Di—” but Tim appeared in front of him in a rush, one hand wrapping around Jason’s wrist and the other covering the phone’s screen.

He wasn’t pulling at Jason to let go, but his hold was firm and his wide eyes imploring, “This is important.”

“And Dick knowing where you are isn’t?” Jason retorted rhetorically. He pulled back, but Tim held on tighter. “ _Get off_.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t even noticed—” Tim protested even as Jason forced Tim’s hand off the phone, and twisted his wrist so he had to let go of him, “— _don’t_ —” Tim reached, but Jason held his hand up, effectively putting the device out of short Timmy-Tim’s grasp. He wasn’t much deterred, however, “ _Give it_ —” Tim’s tone had gone from pleading to angry as he advanced, and Jason raised his free hand at the boy’s chest even as he backed up – eventually hitting the cabinet by the sink.

“Forget it,” Jason snapped seriously. “I’m calling a pick-you-up; you need to go home—”

An arm’s length away, Tim moved back, as though relenting, before he slapped Jason’s outstretched arm to the side, roughly, and lunged at Jason with a snarl—

He hit the counter, Jason side-stepping his advance and escaping into the small kitchen space with nothing but a brief tug at his sweater, Tim’s grip not firm or fast enough to get a good hold on him.

The younger man stood braced against the counter with one hand, scowling at Jason.

Jason scowled right back.

The pause was brief before Tim came at him again, tackling Jason’s mid-section with his shoulder, arms wrapped tight around the older man’s waist, and Jason might have caught him under his arms easily, heaved him against the counter to break the hold, if Tim hadn’t shoved Jason’s half-filled bag of groceries off the counter mid-advance.

Not having expected it, Jason had little time to react before canned foods and a big jug of milk hit him about the legs just as Tim’s shoulder caught him firmly in the gut – he staggered, crushed the milk beneath a heavy boot, felt the liquid explode against his jeans, and was knocked off balance tripping on cans and Tim’s legs tangling with his own.

Jason hit the floor, arms flailing but the phone still tight in his grip, only to land on a can under his back. He arched up with a cry at once, while his free arm bent to retrieve it – giving Tim enough room to slip his arms from around Jason’s waist, the sneaky little shit pushing the can away at the same time, before he came up and shoved Jason down by the shoulders, effectively pinning his own arm under him.

For all that he’d plainly lost some muscle during his abduction, Tim was still strong – had always been stronger than what people seemed to give him credit for. He knew how to use his weight, besides.

Tim sat heavily on Jason’s stomach, legs firm against Jason’s sides, pressing against his ribs – mildly bruised from a few nights ago. They met eyes only briefly before Tim was reaching for the phone again, palm of his right hand digging into Jason’s shoulder as he reached with his left – but Jason had his arm stretched as far as he could go and the phone held tightly—

“Just _give it_!”

“ _No way_.”

With a growl and a glare Tim was attempting to _crawl_ right over Jason, too abrupt for Jason to try and stop him, but, the moment his knee pressed against Jason’s chest, the older man yelped and curled forward, hissing—

Tim gripped at Jason’s shoulder so as not to topple off him, while his free hand managed to grab at the phone in Jason’s hand when his arm bent involuntarily – the pain in his chest and his ribs flaring—

“ _Getoff—_ ” Jason demanded through grit teeth, but Tim shook his head, defiant—

“Not unless you _give_ —”

They struggled; Jason arched trying to shove Tim off, trying to wiggle his arm free from beneath his back, but Tim was balanced with one knee on the floor, foot braced against a cupboard, and both his hands clawing at Jason’s fingers to release the phone—

—his knee was no longer pressing hard against Jason’s chest, the older man’s involuntary jerk apparently having alerted Tim to his injury, but it was still a nuisance against Jason’s torso and before too long Tim had freed the phone from Jason’s twitching fingers—

Tim threw it backward without looking. He shifted his leg off Jason’s chest and onto his nearly-freed arm, slamming a hand down on Jason’s shoulder to stop him from trying to push Tim off any further while he reached into his pants’ pocket with his other hand—

Jason’s phone clattered across the tiles—

“ _You little—_ ” Jason hissed, grabbing hold of Tim’s hoodie and tugging –

Jason’s jaw was starting to ache at the clench of his teeth against the pain all through their scuffle.

Tim was tugging something from his pocket, trying to elbow Jason’s arm out of the way and keeping his other hand pressed heavily against Jason’s shoulder to keep him down, while his legs tightened against Jason’s sides again—

Jason felt too breathless and sore to make a real attempt at throwing Tim off again, but the kid was speaking anyway, quick and urgent, wide eyes intent on Jason’s, insistent on his attention—

“Look – _look_!” he said, freeing his phone from his pocket and shoving it in front of Jason’s cringing face. “Here, I’m turning it on—” and the blank screen lit up with the phone’s introductory display, “Dick can track me if he wants; but in the meantime, I _need_ to talk to you. This is _important_ , Jason,” Tim insisted, leaning closer. “ _Please_. Will you listen?”

Jason swallowed, and breathed through his nose, scowling. Letting go of Tim’s hoodie to reach for his phone instead, “ _Give_ me that, I’m calling him—”

But Tim released Jason’s shoulder to clasp his wrist, grip tight, while he pulled back the phone and held it above his head, “Don’t. I will throw this against the wall,” he threatened.

“The hell is the matter with you, kid?” Jason snapped. “I swear, Dickie’s _out of his mind_ right now, worried about where you are. After your _kidnapping_? Or did you forget about that?”

“It’s not important,” Tim said plainly, stuffing the phone into his back pocket.

Jason gaped, too surprised not to.

“It _is to him_ ,” he said seriously, wondering if Tim had always been so cavalier. “And—and Cassandra, and, _Alfred_. Seriously?” but Tim’s expression didn’t change. “Dare I even mention Bruce—” Jason mumbled, avoiding Tim’s eye.

“Bruce…” Tim said, apparently having heard, his gaze drifting off even as Jason looked back at him. “Isn’t worried about me.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at the kid’s expression, “That’s a little too self-deprecating. Especially for you.”

“Like _you_ know anything about me.”

“I know _enough_ ,” Jason scathed. “…Perfect little replacement.”

Tim’s reaction was instant and his blue eyes fierce when he shoved Jason’s wrist down against his chest – a ways above Jason’s stitches – Tim’s other hand grabbing a handful of fabric at Jason’s shoulder and shoving there too. It didn’t hurt, and Tim didn’t say anything, but he didn’t much need to with the way he leaned closer, _glaring_.

Jason narrowed his eyes in return, but made no apology. He didn’t retaliate either, though.

He thought he understood what Tim’s shove had meant – he was unimpressed with Jason’s bitter jab. Because Tim was _good_ , and if he was at all close to perfect it was because he’d _worked_ his _ass off_ to be that way – and to be acknowledge for it by Bruce, because—

Because, Jason knew, he really _did_ – that Tim didn’t come into being Robin – being his replacement – _perfect_ – he’d come into being Robin under Jason’s shadow, and _that_ was a double-edged sword.

Because Jason despised how his death was nothing but a cautionary tale – a what-not-to-do guidebook for being Robin—

—one they hadn’t even followed, because Tim had been another _kid_ in a suit he didn’t belong in not only because it wasn’t his to have—

—not to mention Damian—

But Jason also revelled a little – a lot – in the knowledge that Tim had to _struggle_ to get Batman to trust him enough, and accept him enough to keep wearing the suit. Whereas, with Jason, he’d basically been _chosen_ for it, no questions asked.

Tim knew Jason knew this, and Jason knew Tim thought his continued bitterness over Tim having replaced him was petty and childish, and Jason—

Didn’t know any more if he disagreed.

Maybe he’d made the jab to test how much he’d mean it if he had to say it now.

After Tim had been going by a new moniker for so long, and the subject of his replacing Jason not having come up in such a long time—

—

—

Jason couldn’t tell.

If Tim being his replacement still meant the same thing to him as it did just after his return.

…

…

…

Finally, Jason’s eyes slid from Tim’s.

The kid’s hood had slipped askew on his head throughout their tussle, revealing Tim’s too-long hair covering his ears, reaching into his neck—

They stayed like that for a few more, silent minutes, the tension slowly seeping out of Tim’s shoulders, his grip on Jason’s wrist and his sweater relaxing. He could still feel Tim’s eyes on him, though Jason kept his own firmly on Tim’s neck.

Tim retreated, quietly clearing his throat and pulling his hands to his chest. He sat awkwardly, looking off to the side, worrying his lower lip like he didn’t know what to do next.

Jason watched his face, examining his expression when he broke the silence, asking, “Did you really…” his voice came out cracked, so he licked his lips, swallowed thickly, “Did you really do it?”

“Do what?” Tim asked, genuinely confused. His fingers were clutching at the ends of his sleeves again.

Jason’s gaze shifted away and back. “Killed the Joker—”

Tim giggled – high-pitched and abrupt – and slapped his palms flat across his mouth at almost the same moment, bending forward with a whimper and bowing his head towards Jason’s chest.

Jason had stiffened at the laugh, and wanted to shift his shoulders, shift his weight – get off the floor, but—

“ _Bruce_ —” Tim had breathed as he hid his face. “… _hated_ me,” he sounded broken. “’m a murderer—”

“ _No_ ,” Jason said at once, and lifted his arm off his chest – all he could see when he craned his neck was the top of Tim’s hoodie, so he shifted it off Tim’s head and kept his hand against the kid’s hairline, trying to coax him into looking back up. “Screw Bruce and his self-righteous moral code,” he continued, heatedly. “It’s a fine line, but that’s _not_ murder. It’s _justice_. He has no right to hate you.”

The hell kind of game was Bruce playing anyway? Did he really want the last thing Tim remembered to be hatred from him?

Tim’s shoulders twitched and his head came up a little, but not enough for Jason to get a proper look at his face.

Jason stopped trying to see and let his head rest against the tiles, his eyes on the ceiling instead.

“…I don’t know what he did to you,” he said, as gently as he could. “I don’t _want_ to, either – sorry,” he felt the need to add, “—but… I know what he did to _me_ , and—” he had to swallow for the dryness of his throat, but he ploughed on more firmly, “and he _deserves_ nothing less than what he got.

“ _Forget_ what Bruce says.

“…

“…You did good, kid…”

Jason was startled to discover he meant it.

Having the green-haired bastard trussed up to the nines, barrel to the head and explosives in the corner just to emphasize his _point_ , threatening the Bat with ultimatums – the final act to his brilliant production – and Jason hadn’t been able to kill the man. And not only because Bruce had forced the gun from his hand, either.

When Tim had been caught and Jason had found him, he’d purposely foregone rescuing the kid himself – for _fucking fear_ of killing the bastard pasty-faced psychopath.

He’d discovered, since his conversation with Bruce little more than a week ago, that—

He could never have done it, no matter how much he wanted, or tried – or had told Dick that, if anyone, it was _him_ who deserved to. Him or Bruce.

But neither of them could ever have.

Killing the Joker had been the starting point to some or another cataclysm in both their lives, if different ones, that neither of them had been willing – if purposely or subconsciously – to set in motion—

For Bruce, crossing that line meant never coming back. He’d be a killer. There’d be no more justification for _not_ killing. There’d be no more mercy; there’d be no more faith in people, or trust in change, or turning back—

If Batman killed the Joker, he could kill them all.

He _would_ kill them all.

For Jason, never crossing the line himself had been clinging to a hope that Batman eventually would. A perpetual invitation for his father to avenge his death and make it right. A party he always knew Bruce would never attend, but every time the opportunity arose Jason had his breath held with hope, like – maybe _this time_. Eventually, he’d done away with that hope, and finally _accepted_ that Batman wouldn’t kill. Couldn’t. And his resolve, difficult to have, because Jason could finally acknowledge that it was, had become admirable.

Yet still Jason never pursued the Joker.

Because now, crossing that line himself seemed like the last irredeemable act he could commit in the eyes of his once father.

The hope had changed into a belief that maybe, just maybe Bruce could still forgive him for everything else – every dead drug dealer, or rapist, or terrorist, or mob boss, or whatever other kind of shitty earth-scum Jason relocated to a grave. But the Joker.

He could never forgive Jason for killing the Joker.

For having his _revenge_.

…

…

Maybe there was a little part of Robin in that hope – that as long as he wasn’t killing for his own sake, Batman would approve. The mission was still everyone else. And Jason wouldn’t be such a disappointment to the man.

Not that he wished for Bruce to be disappointed in Tim, but then, Jason couldn’t really believe he was – Tim had never come across to him as the kind of person to seek the life of someone to exact revenge, so it stood to reason that Tim killing the Joker hadn’t been for himself.

At least, Jason thought—

Wanted to believe, really, because—

Because if Bruce _was_ disappointed in Tim for killing the Joker—

He was disappointed in Jason for killing at all, too – no matter what he’d said the other day—

Tim certainly seemed to be attached to that line of thinking.

He’d lifted his head enough for Jason to see his eyes, and Jason pulled his hand back from Tim’s head. He hadn’t been crying, even though his voice sounded hoarse and tired as though he had. “But I…” his gaze snapped to a corner over Jason’s head before slowly drifting back. “I broke the only rule—”

“He has too many rules than he knows what to do with,” Jason cut in even as Tim spoke over him—

“—that matters—”

“Why’d you do it?” Jason asked, because now that he’d considered it, he needed to know—

“I…” Tim hesitated, rubbing his fingers over the backs of his hands, up his arms into his sleeves as he seemed to think of how to explain. “It was…they were fighting,” he wasn’t looking at Jason, but stared at a cupboard instead, like the answer was a scene projected there. “And Joker had Bruce pinned, and he was…cutting at his—” Tim looked at his now-crossed arms and Jason remembered the thin scars up Bruce’s arms from the backs of his hands.

Stretches of nearly-healed scabs and thin white lines that would fade with time.

Jason hadn’t asked about them.

Now he was glad he hadn’t.

“And he was going to… _he was going to kill him_ ,” Tim said, _firmly_ , insistently, like he’d said it before and needed to be understood, and believed. “I wanted to _help_ – I just—no one else was close, or able, and I – _all I had_ was the—trick gun—” Tim’s hands had slipped from his sleeves, hung in the air like they were holding something and Tim was looking at it – looking at the gun in his head – debating. “So I used it. I didn’t think,” he said it like it excused his behaviour, but then, “I wasn’t thinking,” like it was a confession of his incompetence and enough reason to blame him—

He stuck his fingers in his hair, frustrated and ashamed, his cheeks red and his expression pitiful—

Still he didn’t cry though, and Jason didn’t know why he was expecting him to.

Maybe because, if it were Jason, he would have already—

“I just—just didn’t want Bruce to be dead—” Tim whispered, like he was offering part of his soul.  
Jason thought he could almost _feel_ Tim’s self-disappointment, and frustration, and _loathing_ , coming off him in waves—

—Jason had to wonder if it was because he’d felt similarly before—

—he didn’t know—

“Hey— _Tim_ ,” he barked, forcing Tim’s eyes to him while he grabbed at the younger man’s elbow. “He can’t hate you for that,” Jason insisted. “You saved his life.”

“I killed,” Tim replied bluntly, like that was _it_ and there was absolutely no further justification or excuse. His fingers went slack in his hair and his shoulders slumped.

Jason could feel his frustration mounting at Tim’s defeated look – he wasn’t sure why it was becoming so important to him that Tim agree with him—

—didn’t want to give it any thought just now either—

Jason rolled his eyes, “So join the club,” he sniped. Maybe he’d just spent too much time being a big brother to Damian that it was becoming a natural response—

Tim gave him a deadpan look, hands slipping down to rest lightly on Jason’s chest. But his wide blue eyes seemed more like Jason was used to.

“Asking me to be your Robin again,” Tim said – quipped, really. It wasn’t even a question.

Jason smirked at that, even as he tried hard to suppress a blush he could feel in his neck – asking Tim to be his Robin when he’d been vying for the position of new-and-improved Batman during Bruce’s stint through Time, had, in hindsight, been one of his more ridiculous and impulsive actions.

The only reason Jason could think he’d made the suggestion in the first place was because…wherever Bruce had been – dead and looking down on them – he’d feel Jason take something else that had been his at one point. He’d feel loss – not the same as Jason had, but…

…

…it had been a petty, petulant thing, and Jason had no desire for it anymore.

“You already have a Batman,” Jason said, not adding that Tim wasn’t Robin anymore. He’d come into his own since then. “ _And_ ,” Jason added pointedly, poking at Tim’s shoulder. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Tim looked like he might make another protest, but Jason cut him off—

“Joker was dying anyway, wasn’t he,” he said, and watched Tim blink. “You _know that_ , right?”

Tim squinted.

“His autopsy revealed early signs of cancer. And…a _ton_ of toxins,” he waved his hand. Bruce hadn’t been specific when he’d shared the information and Jason hadn’t wanted to ask. He’d figured if he needed to at any point in future, he’d just hack the Cave. Or the GCPD. Or Arkham. Or wherever. Or ask Dick. “He was full of crap.

“…Taking you was his last hurrah against the Bat…”

Tim was staring at the corner again.

“He _really_ didn’t tell you that?”

Tim shook his head slightly, “No, I…” Jason could almost see the little gears behind his eyes turning to work it out, but…sometimes there just wasn’t any way to know what Bruce was thinking and why he didn’t share half the information he had at any given time. “I was…his…last…hurrah?” Tim looked lost, and Jason started a bit when he giggled – high-pitched and loud—

He made no move to smother the sound – it shook his shoulders and his hands against Jason’s chest—

Jason flicked his forefinger against Tim’s forehead, _hard_. “Hey!”

It was Tim’s turn to jump, cutting off mid-giggle. Jason was grateful it had worked. “Are you going to get off me or am I going to throw you off?” he asked, almost casually, but he could feel his arm had gone to sleep half-buried under his back and Tim’s leg.

Tim looked around like he was only just now realising he’d been sitting on Jason’s stomach for the entirety of their conversation. “Oh.”

Promptly he shifted off, but didn’t stand up; choosing instead to stay seated on his knees to Jason’s left.

The older man pushed himself up by his free hand, and shifted back to sit more comfortably. Canned food, a sealed package of sausages and his broken bottle of milk littered the two feet of space between cupboards.

Jason sighed, and carefully shook the stiffness from his arm. “Argh,” he whined. “All the pins and needles,” he set his arm on his thigh, resigned to waiting out the uncomfortable, tingling sensation.

He was equally uncomfortably aware of Tim’s eyes on him, though by the blank look Tim suddenly startled out of when Jason fixed him with a wary gaze, Jason guessed the younger man hadn’t even realised he’d been staring.

“Oh!” he started, “I hurt you!” and Tim had jumped forward without warning, catching the hem of Jason’s sweater and the shirt he had on underneath, tugging up—“Are you o—”

“Whoa, there—” Jason plucked Tim’s hands from his clothes and shoved him back, none too gently, “Buy a guy dinner before you whip out the hands, yeah?”

Tim blushed, and plopped back down on his knees with his hands hovering awkwardly, “What—no—I wasn’t—”

Jason chuckled, righting his clothes while Tim’s mouth worked like a fish out of water’s—

“You’re an ass,” Tim scowled at him then, hands clenching into fists. Jason shook his head, still amused, while he reached one hand up under his shirt to feel at the bandages. “You’re basically my brother,” Tim added with a huff.

Jason snorted, “Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “Same rules apply.” He checked his fingers, but they’d come away clean. “I’m not bleeding,” he shifted his shoulders, some, stretched his arm as the last of the heaviness faded from it. “It feels alright,” he looked up at Tim seriously. “Which is good – _for you_.”

Tim snorted, but his eyes weren’t on Jason’s. He’d crossed his arms and pouted at what Jason had said, but he was frowning now at Jason’s grey sweater.

“What?” Jason snapped.

“You have…” Tim started, but bit his lip and said nothing else.

Jason rolled his eyes, annoyed, “Spit it out.”

“…So many scars,” Tim said quietly, and it sounded like a question.

Jason’s shoulders relaxed, “Oh,” he said, and glanced at Tim’s neck. “Comes with the job,” he dismissed with a one-shouldered shrug, but Tim was still looking at Jason like he could see through his shirt.

Hesitation made him pause, briefly, before Jason stole a page from Tim’s new book and reached into the boy’s personal space to tug his hoodie to the side and finger the scar at Tim’s neck—

The action pulled Tim from his thoughts as he recoiled, slapping a hand to his neck while Jason’s fingers hung in the air.

“Sorry…” Jason mumbled, and pulled his hand back. “About that, I mean,” he added, pointing.

Tim was looking at the floor, “It wasn’t you. It was Clayface.”

Tim wasn’t wrong, of course, but, “I put him up to it. Targeting you, in particular. I never meant for him to actually hurt you though.”

“I don’t think he’d been planning to,” Tim shrugged. “It was an accident.”

“Still. I explicitly told him not to—”

“Because you wanted to do the hurting yourself,” Tim said plainly, and Jason blanched.

“That’s not—”

“Untrue?” Tim interrupted again, and when he looked up at Jason his blue eyes were narrowed and his lips a thin line. “Because you left me with a few scars of my own when you tried to kill me.”

“Tim. If I wanted you dead. You’d be dead.”

Tim scowled at something past Jason’s head, but then he’d looked back and was unzipping his hoodie, “Of all the scars you could apologize for – you pick that one?” he lifted his t-shirt and Jason flinched—

—the kid’s torso was covered in a plethora of scars with hardly any indication as to where one began and another ended—

—some were shaped like vines criss-crossing over linear lines lying parallel and perpendicular to one another – a checkered design – disappearing into clusters of tiny craters that marched a circular pattern across his ribs, and—

—Jason felt sick—

—it wasn’t any of these Tim pointed to though—

“Not _this_?” Tim demanded, pressing his gloveless fingertips against a scar Jason could see the beginning and end of, clearly—

He’d put it there.

He swallowed thickly, remembering the blood on the batarang, the tips of his fingers after he’d stabbed Tim – Tim in the Batman suit – with the damn thing—

“I…” he looked away. “I didn’t want you dead…” he whispered, like a promise, or a prayer – or a _plea_ …

…

He’d never wanted Tim _dead_.

But then, when he’d emerged in his own twisted version of Batman intending to take the mantle for himself by force as seemed necessary—

He hadn’t been himself, _at all_.

The longer the battle had dragged on, the less of himself he’d become.

Afterward, he thought—

He’d thought the Pit Madness had finally gotten the better of him. He’d given in and indulged in a childhood dream the Madness swallowed whole, perverting it and taking more of him than he’d had to give—

Afterward, he could hardly remember half of what he’d done or why.

He’d slunk away, swearing he’d never be that person again.

He’d kept that promise. So far.

“Is that your version of an apology?” Tim sniped, righting his shirt and crossing his arms again.

“Probably not,” Jason spoke at the floor, and his fingers twitched and his cheeks burned with shame. “If I had to do it over…I might end up doing the same thing. I thought I had no other options, no other way to…deal with you, or the Pit Madness, or…being the Batman I thought…Bruce ought to have been…” it was only thereafter, coming back to himself all alone as though he was waking from the coffin a second time, screaming for Bruce and seeing a vicious red-eyed Batman behind his eyes – terrified at the realisation that it was _him_ – that Jason had come to accept Batman wasn’t meant to be a killer, and Bruce’s firm resolve was admirable even as it hurt his soul.

“And now?” Tim asked, watching him thoughtfully – almost the same way he’d watched Jason when he’d opened the manor door for him the first time and offered him Alfred’s freshly squeezed whatever-it-was.

“What?” Jason blinked, not sure he was following the conversation anymore.

“Do you still think Batman should be a killer? Are you going to don your terrifying Batsuit and terrorise us again?”

Jason shook his head, “No,” and spoke his thoughts aloud for the first time – to someone other than Bruce—“Batman shouldn’t kill. That’s what The Red Hood is for.”

“He doesn’t _have_ to be…” Tim said.

Jason chuckled, “Asking me to be _your_ Robin?” he retorted, but the smile dropped from his face with Tim’s flinch—

“Of course not,” Tim shook his head. “I don’t want to be Batman. Any more than I wanted to be Robin to begin with.”

“Oh, please,” Jason scoffed. “‘The Adventures of Timmy the Night-time Parkour-enthusiast with a Camera’ suggests a different story.”

Not to mention Tim’s hard work at being accepted into the “Family,” Jason didn’t add.

“It was hardly parkour,” Tim replied, but he was almost smiling. “You know about that…?”

Jason shrugged. “Not at the time. It came with the folder I got on you – when I eventually got past the pictures and actually read the thing,” he admitted before he could stop himself, and then hastened to add, “You weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were.”

“I was like ten,” Tim waved a hand dismissively. “No one is as stealthy as they think they are at ten. Except Dick.”

“And Damian.”

Tim winced, “Uh…yeah—”

“Oh. Sorry – taboo little bird name. I forget,” Jason cringed and looked away; hoping Tim would drop the topic. Since returning from the manor, his littlest brother had been on his mind about as much as his drug case was, if not more—

“It’s okay…” Tim mumbled.

An awkward silence persisted, neither of them looking at the other. Jason had wanted to fish about Tim becoming Robin, from _Tim_ himself, because he wasn’t sure he believed what Bruce had told him about it, and Talia’s details had included very little about _why_ Tim was Robin, only emphasising that he was – but it appeared the opportunity had passed him by.

“You…‘got’ a folder on me?” Tim finally broke the silence, raising his eyebrows at Jason. “You didn’t investigate yourself?”

Jason waved a hand at him, “Not your beeswax, kid. Find another candle to light up.” He wasn’t about to reveal to the young detective how he’d spent the years after his resurrection in Talia’s care, and that she’d been the one who kept him up to date with Batman and the new Robin he was sporting. He was about to bring the conversation back around to Tim’s origins, since it was vaguely related to the folder they were talking about again, but Tim spoke before he could—

“Does it require, like, a lunch first? Or something?”

Jason blinked, and a bubble of confused laughter stuck in his throat, “What?”

“Well, if dinner gets your shirt off,” Tim explained, completely deadpan, “I’m trying to gauge what meal equates to ‘revealing personal information’—”

Jason laughed outright at that, “I really hope you’re kidding.”

Tim’s smile was small, but it looked oddly triumphant, “I think,” he said.

“Good. Cause I’m not that easy by a long shot.”

Tim only smiled – at him, briefly, and then he ducked his head.

It was quiet again, and Jason was on the verge of fidgeting when he remembered, “Didn’t you come over here and wrestle me to the ground because of something ‘ _important_ , Jason?’”

Tim winced like he’d been struck – making Jason frown – and then he was pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his uncovered fingers and gripping the fabric tight, “They look like crescent moons,” he said, quietly, eyes averted.

Jason frowned deeper, but Tim clarified before he could ask—

“Your scars.”

Jason’s shoulders hunched automatically, one hand running over the fabric of his sweater where, underneath the clothes, etched into his skin—

He felt incredibly uncomfortable, almost nauseous, but then—

Tim’s scars—

Tim was avoiding the reason he’d come, but _why_ , when he’d come all the way here, loitered by Jason’s door, and made such a fuss over not calling Dick because he so desperately needed to tell Jason something, Jason couldn’t fathom—

Against his better judgement then, Jason decided to humour the kid—

“You should see my legs,” he replied, almost making light, “They’re twice as bad. Short pants don’t go far in the line of defence, as you might imagine.”

—or make him uncomfortable enough that spilling the beans on why he was here seemed a better option than listening to Jason wax poetic about his death—

“They’re from—?” Tim gaped.

“Keepsake from the clown,” Jason confirmed.

—because that’s where he thought he was going.

“If I had any advice for my twelve-year old self,” he continued – because the sting of having died seemed less when he could make bad jokes about it, “Invest in some pants – the heavy-duty armoured kind,” and even less still when his bad jokes about dying made other people cringe, because they didn’t know how to deal with it, “You know, _besides_ ‘don’t jack the Bat’s wheels, it’s not worth it in the long run’ – which turned out to be pretty short.”

There was the cringe now—

And Jason smirked—

But Tim’s hands were tight fists in his sleeves, and his voice was rough when he spoke, glaring at Jason from beneath his too-long bangs, “Does the past mean _so little_ to you, you’d wish it all away if you could?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Jason scathed. “Maybe I’m just curious about what I’d look like without all the curving little mementos—”

“You’re a damned _ass_ ,” Tim snapped. “And an idiot.”

Jason was caught between chuckling or scowling at the nerve of the kid.

“Excuse you, I’m a genius,” he said wryly.

“Do you really _hate_ us that much?” Tim asked, ignoring his quip. “Even now…? Even with Bruce—? And telling Dick you’d be his little brother, and finding me, or trying to save Damian—was all that a _lie_?!” Tim looked at him, wide-eyed and almost pleading—

“No!” Jason replied, defiant, before he could think on it, only to back-track, “I-I don’t know – it’s complicated—”

Tim laughed, derisive, and rolled his eyes, “You have _no idea_ how lucky you are—”

“‘ _Lucky?’_ ” Jason repeated, “Do these look like good-luck charms to you?” he gestured the half-moon scars across his abdomen, shirt and sweater pulled back with one hand—

Tim hardly looked at them—

“Bruce would have given _anything_ to take that back!” Tim argued, “To prevent that from happening – he loved you _so much_ —”

Reeling in his first response to punch the younger man, Jason sucked in a breath through his teeth, and glared instead, “ _Stop_ talking,” he warned.

“You were his _first_ son—” Tim ignored him, “The _only one_ , if not for Damian—”

“I’m warning you, kid—”

“You told Dick nothing between you and Bruce had changed after you spoke—”

“You had _better_ put a cork in it, Timothy—” Jason grit, shoulders tense with the desire to spring forward and grab Tim by the front of his hoodie—

“But that _can’t_ be true,” Tim insisted, still speaking like he hadn’t heard Jason, “You _have_ to _know_ how _much_ Bruce cared about you – how _badly_ he wanted you to be part of the family—”

“That’s enough,” Jason finally snapped, before he did lunge forward to grab Tim by his clothing, “Shut the hell up!”

But Tim only shook his head, expression defiant, as he allowed Jason to tug and shove at him—

“That’s why you told Dick you’d try – you’d be his little brother—”

“ _No_!” Jason cut in, “That had nothing to do with Bruce – or even Dick—” he stopped, before he said something stupid, and leaned back, away from Tim, feeling like he’d gotten caught with his hand in Alfred’s cookie jar.

“Then why?” Tim asked; voice a whisper, fingers reaching up to grasp at Jason’s wrist—but Jason—

 _“Just promise me at least this much—Jason—”_ Damian’s voice came to mind—

 _“When Grayson inevitably tries to be_ nice _to you – because you_ know _he_ will _—_

_“Don’t reject him out of hand. He needs—_

_“—he needs his…his…little brother—s.”_

Jason shoved Tim back, before the younger man could clasp his wrists, and scooted back across the tiles to where he’d been sitting before—

Knees up, eyes on his milk-stained boots, pants—

Jason took a deep, stuttering breath, “It’s none of your damn business—” he chanced a glance up at Tim, who sat, leaning against the cabinet door, watching Jason with a pensive expression.

Jason swallowed, and scowled away.

“I bet it was Talia.”

Jason recoiled, having no idea what Tim was referring to within the context of their conversation. He looked up, unprepared to hide his startled expression, “ _What_?”

“That gave you the folder.”

Tim wasn’t looking at him, was instead looking idly over the contents of Jason’s grocery bag strewn across the floor. Jason narrowed his eyes, considering Tim’s sudden calm in the wake of their spat—

But apparently, they were back to that.

At length, he asked, “What makes you think that?”

“You said ‘Pit Madness’ which implies Lazarus Pit,” Tim explained, like it was obvious. “Which suggests Ra’s – unlikely – or, more likely, Talia. I can only assume she used it to heal you in some way, since I know she didn’t resurrect you with it,” Tim didn’t elaborate on that, but Jason filed it away for some other occasion when he was feeling curious, “But, by your scars…” he glanced at Jason, who stiffened for a moment, “It wasn’t that—”

“No, they’d already decided to stick by the time I took a dip,” Jason said, forcing himself to relax. He shifted, crossing his legs to sit more comfortably. Tim eyed him sideways, but carried on when he saw Jason wasn’t about to explain what the Pit had been for—

Jason had told Bruce the entirety of his sorry tale – or, what he could remember for certain, anyway – but the man had apparently not shared after Jason had left the manor. At least – not with Tim.

“So I suppose you must have stayed with her. For a time, at least,” Tim continued. “And who else but League of Assassin operatives could have seen a ten year old kid trailing after Batman and Robin?”

“Uh – Batman and Robin?” Jason mock suggested, and Tim rolled his eyes.

“Gotham is always crawling with spies for the League – it wouldn’t have been hard for them to discover who I was and keep tabs on the new Robin without me knowing,” there was no shame for him in admitting that, Jason realised, and wondered if he would have been appalled to know someone was tailing him without his knowledge—

But then – there _had_ been someone.

There had been Tim.

Jason…Jason had been Tim’s Robin.

“And they would have given Talia the information for the file,” Tim concluded, finally looking at Jason – a shadow of smugness in his eyes, at the corner of his mouth – which, seemed askew with it there. “Which she then gave to you.”

“Perfect little replacement,” Jason grumbled under his breath.

But Tim had heard.

He smiled, looking wistful, “I wonder…when had that turned into a term of endearment, instead of an insult…”

It wasn’t a question, so Jason scowled, leaning dangerously forward—

“It’s _not_ ,” he insisted.

Tim chuckled, rolling his head back and around to look at Jason again, “Like Dick calling you ‘Little Wing.’ Couldn’t call you Robin, could he? You couldn’t either with me—”

“Who’s being an ass now, kid?” Jason snapped, and clenched his fists on his jeans instead of Tim’s hoodie. “Where do you get off?”

“Am I still your replacement, Jason…?” Tim asked, and it sounded forlorn. Jason swallowed, his throat feeling thick. “Is that all I am to you?”

Jason scowled, because he didn’t _know_ how to answer that.

After speaking with Bruce—

Though they hadn’t gone into the finer details of Tim’s appointment, Bruce _had_ told him a little about Tim having been Robin—

How grateful he was Jason had found him—

How proud he was of Tim—

How much Tim had wanted to be like him—

Jason ground his teeth, and looked away.

“Then why did you find me…when Joker—?” Tim cut off with a hitch in his voice, and Jason clenched his jeans tighter, nipped at his bottom lip—

“You’re a Robin—” he growled, and looked at Tim fiercely, “I wasn’t about to let him kill another one of us—”

—Tim’s wide blue eyes were shiny with tears—

“I don’t hate you, Tim,” Jason added on a whim, voice shaky at the admittance. “I don’t want you dead—”

Tim sobbed – a strangled sound in the back of his throat and a gasp of air. He ducked his head, covering his face with his hands—

Jason stared, feeling his throat clench and his chest burn, and the fingers on his jeans loosen—

“Tim—”

“Joker—” Tim hiccupped into his hands, almost inaudible, “Didn’t want me dead—either—”

“I don’t want to know!” Jason almost snapped, sounding desperate to his own ears.

He scooted closer; hands hovering above Tim’s shaking shoulders—

The kid was mumbling, but, thankfully, not loud or coherent enough for Jason to make out—

“Please, don’t tell me,” Jason whispered, “Please, I can’t—”

He could hardly deal with his own lingering obsession—

—tracing the half-moon marks all across his skin—

—the tears where the teeth of the crowbar had caught—

—and _pulled_ —

“But I don’t know—” Tim spoke, louder, through hitching breath and high-pitched sobs, and glove-covered hands _pressed_ against his face—“—know what ’m doing—Di—can’t—help me, I—”

“I—I can’t help you either, Timmy,” Jason breathed, leaning into Tim’s space, finally putting one hand against the boy’s trembling shoulder—

He went still at once, and Jason paused, too—

“But you,” Tim hiccupped, and at the edge of it was a breathy laugh. He let go of his face, raising his head to lock eyes with Jason—

His face was a mess – scarlet, tear-stained cheeks, nose runny and blue eyes framed red, his brows furrowed—

“You—you’re the only one—who knows—”

Jason shook his head slightly, at a loss—“No—no—”—knowing only that he _didn’t want to know_ about what the Joker had done to Tim—

—he was scared of it—

—the knowledge – the thought – the reminder—

—he could barely keep his own nightmares at bay; he didn’t want to share Tim’s as well—

Tim’s eyes were _filled_ with tears – sticking to his lashes when he blinked—he _gripped_ Jason’s wrists, and through the sobbing his thin, too-pale lips morphed into a twisted grin—

He giggled, and Jason held the boy’s shoulder tighter, his free hand clenching into a fist—

—Tim’s grip on his wrists became tighter in turn—

“You have _got_ to stop doing that—” Jason implored—because, Tim’s giggling sounded _so_ unlike Tim, and Jason didn’t want to hear it – didn’t want to think about what it _did_ sound like—

Tim dropped his head briefly, fingers twitching against Jason’s pulse, and when he looked back up the grin was replaced with a snarl—

“You think I don’t _know_ that?” Tim spat, and tugged at Jason’s arms—“You think I don’t _know_ what I sound like? _Who_ I sound like?!”

“ _Easy_ —” Jason tried, leaning back, Tim shoving his arm like he meant to hit Jason with it—

Tim only moved closer into Jason’s space – a hiccup still in his throat, but the tears no longer streaming—“H-How many scars did he leave on you, huh?”

“What—”

Tim released Jason’s wrists, while Jason grasped onto his hoodie, trying to pull Tim away, but the younger man only kept coming closer on his knees, grabbing hold of Jason’s sweater – pulling closer, pulling up—

Jason tipped back under Tim’s weight, his legs shifting out from under him, torso twisting to press his back against the cabinet—

“Tim—”

“Because your scars are on the _outside_ – and _boo-hoo_ someone else was his Robin after you died,” Tim shoved against his shoulders, and Jason slid further down the cabinet, before he dug the heels of his boots into the fissures between tiles and tried to push himself back up – but Tim leaned over him, looking down with an angry sneer, “—but that was your _biggest_ problem after what Joker did to you—”

“That’s not true—” Jason growled, letting go of Tim’s hoodie, where he had him by the shoulders, and shoved his hands in, between Tim’s arms to grasp his front instead – intent on pushing the kid back and off him—“ _Or fair_ —”

Tim only held onto him tighter, though, leaning in closer to Jason’s face – eyes narrowed and frightening, “Whatever he did to your head, _you didn’t have to deal with it_ —”

“ _Because I was dead_!” Jason snapped viciously, shaking Tim by the lapels – anger finally making itself known, rippling under his skin—

“Well, I _wish_ I was dead!” Tim shouted back into his face, and Jason hesitated – at the sound of his voice cracking, and shaking with unreleased laughter, as much as the admittance itself—

Jason shook his head, stunned—

—the quick burst of anger evaporated, leaving him feeling only cold and confused—

“ _Me_ – I have it _on my skin_ , I have it _in my head_ ,” Tim continued through clenched teeth, like he hadn’t seen Jason’s reaction, “ _I have it on my hands_ —” Tim’s fingers found Jason’s neck—

Jason pressed further back into the cabinet, but he was almost all the way onto his back on the floor by now, and Tim shuffled ever closer – Jason flinching as the younger man pressed his leg against his abdomen to pin him again—

“—in my _throat_ , in my _lungs_ —”

“ _Tim_ —” Jason tried, trading Tim’s hoodie for the hand by his throat – Jason’s fingers closing around Tim’s wrist—digging a space between the wool of Tim’s sweaty glove and the skin of Jason’s neck—

Tim’s fingers squeezed, _pressed_ into his neck, nails biting—

Jason pulled Tim’s hand back by the wrist even as his mouth opened automatically—trying to gulp in air—

“—I can’t _breathe_ —” Tim said, voice low, breath against Jason’s cheek, and all his weight on Jason’s neck, stomach—the knuckles of Jason’s own fingers cutting into his neck where he’d wedged them between his skin and Tim’s still- _pressing_ palm—

How the hell had this happened?

“—with the way it _suffocates me_ —”

Jason clutched Tim’s hand, pulling hard to get him away from his throat—

Tim was close, his lips moving against Jason’s ear—“I _killed you_ , didn’t I?” Tim whispered, not at all sounding like Tim—

“ _Getoff!_ ” Jason snarled, pulling Tim’s hand from his throat—nails scratching as they went—with Jason’s one hand clutching Tim’s and the other yanking him back by the bend of his elbow.

Jason was pushing off the cabinet – off the floor – in the same movement, Tim having gone almost limp – falling on his back without protest, allowing Jason to pin him down easily—

 _Giggling_ all the while.

Jason, gasping in air as he leaned over Tim, clutching the younger man by the wrists – felt the faded anger in his gut start to simmer again—

“What the _hell_ , Tim?!” Jason demanded, but Tim laughed – choked, and sobbed, and then there were tears again—

He looked away, turned his head like he meant to hide it in his shoulder, and cried—

Jason breathed – quick and frustrated, trying to calm down.

Obviously, something wasn’t right here.

And where the hell was Dick? He must have realised Tim was gone by now.

“I’m taking you home,” Jason decided, and meant to act on that declaration before he could change his mind or Tim tried to do some other stupid thing—

But then the boy’s lips moved, his voice too quiet for Jason to hear—

“What?” he snapped, impatient.

“Bruce…” Tim breathed, voice hoarse like he’d been the one nearly strangled. “B-Bruce—’s—” Tim looked at him like he couldn’t look away, blinking tears from his eyes, “D—dead,” he choked out on the back of a sob and the start of a giggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip to Chapter 61 for ch12.


	59. Potential fic ideas~

**1 Nov 2015**

Okay but, imagine an animated kids show where Titus is Batman and Alfred the cat is Alfred, and they go on their own little animal adventures to save the day, and Batcow is there, obvs, and Goliath will sometimes drop in from a mission with Damian, and all we ever see of Damian (or anyone else) are his boots (or his waist, cause Titus is a big dog, or the back of his head when Alfred sits on his shoulders, but it’s all from the pets’ POV). And there’s this whole convoluted plot going on with the *people* in the background, and Titus and Alfred will sometimes get involved, especially like, when Damian feels down, he’ll talk to them and they’ll do something to make him feel better. And the animals make animal noises, okay, nobody talks, but they give each other really meaningful looks, and the people will fill in the plot, but you know what’s going on because Titus and Alfred’s actions just tell you everything you need to know to understand.

And it’s funny and quirky in a witty way, not a senseless comedic way, and it looks really pretty, and it teaches lessons and it gets emotional, and happy, and dark, and scary, but it gets better again, and it’s as realistic as it can possibly be, and the whole thing is just a great adventure (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

**17 April 2016**

So in some alternate universe somewhere, Jason is just starting to hang out with the family again, but only mostly on missions. Dick, when he’s unexpectedly injured on patrol one night, decides to take the opportunity to remedy that - and maybe it’s Barbara’s suggestion a little, but he’s not telling anyone that.

So because he hasn’t met Cassandra yet and Dick wants him to know and love the whole family, and them to love him also, he uses some nefarious “You **owe** me for The _Thing_ , Jason”-means, to bully Jay into taking Cass to the carnival since he can’t anymore.

Tim and Damian, separately, find out about this, and while both of them know Cass is decidedly capable of taking care of herself, they really don’t want to leave it up to fate, and “ _Todd_ ” (whose relationship with them still needs plenty of mending). Tim and Damian discover they’re both on the same mission, and since they can grudgingly agree two people might be needed, they agree to work together. So they follow Cass and Jason to the carnival, and spy at a discreet distance.

Only, they lose their targets at some inopportune moment, getting stuck on a ride or something. Whether or not Jason and Cass actually noticed their tail and purposely lost them is a mystery… But, when Tim sees Damian looks like he’s sort of enjoyed the ride, he tricks the kid into going on more with the pretence of “We’ll get a better view of the park from the ride.” Damian catches on, but Tim doesn’t care because “You’re a kid and this is a carnival. Don’t argue, dammit,” and they give up the chase and enjoy themselves instead.

Damian regrets it only because by some curse or another, every time he comes across a cart selling something sweetly delicious, it’s somehow _Stephanie_ behind the counter, and she teases him _relentlessly_ because this is the fifth time he’s come back for cotton candy (at five different places, but the woman is magically _everywhere_ ). Tim just grins at her, surprised and amused and smug at getting Damian hooked on the candy.

Meanwhile Cass and Jason are bonding over their newly-discovered mutual love for all the most _dangerous_ rides, and when they can’t go on one because Cass is somehow too short and Jason is too tall, they both Batglare the attendant into submission, and then smile serenely when he gives in. He’s not there when they come out.

Eventually the four of them run into each other, and they’re all just there, facing each other, obviously guilty (and Tim is covered in souvenirs and stupid hats and stuffed animal prizes that are half of them Damian’s, and Jason has a bump on his forehead and his arm round Cass’s shoulders, and she’s eating a huge chocolate ice cream that can’t compare to all the packages of sweets Damian’s lugging around), and after some awkward feet-shifting and staring and eye-averting, they all at once agree to **_NOT TELL DICK_** , before they go on at least three rides together.

When they get back to the Cave, separately, but magically all at the same time, even though they took different routes and left separately (because _Oracle_ ), they find Stephanie eating waffles drenched in syrup and Alfred’s amused and Dick has this really _smug_ look on his face like, _Yeah_. I know what you did.

So Jason groans and leaves, and Tim scowls and Damian glares, swearing revenge, and Cass just grins and brings up the most hilarious and embarrassing moments of their excursion at inappropriate moments and always in front of Dick, who laughs his head off (like while trying not to get shot at during patrol, and it freaks criminals out because he’s Batman at the time). But the boys can’t be mad at her for too long and, eventually, when the carnival comes around again the next year, they all just sort of _show up_ for it. Without inviting Dick the first time, because revenge, but then it becomes an annual family tradition (and of course Alfred and Babs get dragged along, too).


	60. untitled fic about Bruce coming home from a business trip~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny batkids alert!  
> This is very much incomplete; sidenote.
> 
> Written 2016.

Bruce waves a dismissive hand at Alfred, saying, “Leave it, I’ll get the kids to help later,” even as he trots up the porch’s steps toward the manor’s front doors.

Alfred’s mildly amused “Yes, sir,” follows in his wake, but Bruce barely minds it.

The moment he’s through the doors, a barrage of tiny bodies hits his mid-section with a force fierce enough to almost topple him to the ground, a chorus of “Dads”, “Daddy”, “Father” and “Hi”, “You’re back”, “Hello” and “Welcome home” singing in his ears.

Bruce smiles, drops to his knees to get his arms round as many of them as he can all at once, ruffling heads of dark hair in turn, only—

There’s one missing.

Cass, of a height with Tim, is tucked in front between him and the shorter, younger Damian, and Dick, tallest and eldest, is half hugging Bruce and half hugging everyone else, too. It’s to him Bruce poses the question, because Dick would know, “Where’s Jason?”

They all pause, relaxing grips round his middle and on his sweater.

Dick blinks, looks around, “He was right behind us…” he muses aloud, and the next moment he’s ducked out from under Bruce’s arm and gone sprinting up the staircase, calling “I’ll get him!” over his shoulder.

“Alright then,” Bruce mumbles, trying not to freak out on principle. Of all his children, he’d half expected Jason to be first in line to greet him, getting home from this already long, then unexpectedly extended business trip. Bruce had never been so exhausted, or missed his family this much.

His remaining children disentangle themselves from his person and take a step back in unison, each regarding him with a critical eye. Bruce takes advantage of the moment to inspect them as well – Cass’s hair is longer than before he’d left, and he could have sworn Tim had been _shorter_ than her, and Damian’s cheeks had been fuller.

“Too thin,” Cass declares at last.

“Too stubbly,” Tim adds. They glance over to Damian.

“Too _late_ ,” the younger boy snaps, arms crossed, pouting more than he’s frowning.

Bruce sets his hand on the boy’s small shoulder; squeezes, “I know, chum, I’m sorry,” he says, and pulls the boy into a one-armed hug. “On top of everything I was delayed at the airport, as well – it’s one of those things…”

“Tt,” Damian huffs, but doesn’t pull away from his father – returns the hug, in fact, and Bruce smiles when the ten-and-a-half year old lets go and steps back, “Don’t let it happen again.”

Bruce sighs, “I suppose I’ll just buy the airport, then,” he says, amused, but Damian gives a curt nod.

“Do _that_ , yes.”

“My turn!” Cass exclaims, before he can say anything else, and flings her arms round his neck, squeezes tight once and lets go to peck him on the forehead, “Welcome home,” she steps back in line, smile broad.

Bruce returns the smile, tucks stray black hair behind her ears, and turns to Tim. “Your turn, then?” he asks, half-rhetorically, and half-hopefully.

He’s been most concerned about the way Tim would take his long absence, considering the way Tim’s late parents had been in and out of the country at the drop of a hat, leaving Tim with servants and never keeping to their schedules for coming home. Bruce had been afraid of reminding Tim of that, and potentially depressing or estranging the boy – he’d called as often as he could, and spent more time on the phone with Tim, he thinks, than most of the others, wanting to reassure the kid that he was coming home for certain, and they’d spend time together when he did.

Bruce had been less concerned with Damian, and Dick, who’d been with them the longest of all his adopted children. Damian and Dick were as used to Bruce’s physical absence as Tim had been his own parents’, but they were also very used to Bruce’s near-constant company when the man was home and each other when he wasn’t, besides. Things Tim is unfamiliar with, and Bruce had been determined, since taking him in, to familiarize Tim with the company of others – he’d never feel neglected or abandoned again.

There had been so much progress in such a short time towards that end; Bruce feared his long absence might have ruined it.

But – Tim’s smiling at him, too.

“Yup,” the boy says, flitting forward and hugging Bruce just as Cassandra had, whispering at his ear, “I’m glad you’re home, Bruce…”

“Me too, kiddo,” Bruce whispers back, and ruffles Tim’s hair when he lets go. “You’re alright?” he all but mouths and Tim nods, still smiling happily.

Damian _tt_ ’s again, rolls his eyes, and receives a nudge from Cassandra, and a hair-ruffle from Bruce for his trouble. The youngest boy very carefully _does not smile_.

“So,” Bruce shifts onto his haunches. “Do we wait for Dick and Jason,” he glances at the staircase, where his eldest pair of boys have yet to appear. He tries not to worry _too_ much. “Confer in the study, or, do we just stay here?”

Three young faces turn different degrees of thoughtful, glance at each other, before Cassandra nods decisively at him, “Here’s good.”

“Alright,” Bruce says, unable to resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, what did I miss?”

“Drake is still a pain,” Damian offers at once, arms crossed and chin jutting out.

“Damian is still a little _brat_ ,” Tim shoots back, glaring past their sister at the younger boy.

Cassandra grins, throwing her arms round the necks of each boy and tugging them close none too gently, “Don’t worry, Dad. I keep them in line,” she says, her expression smug.

Tim and Damian glance at each other defiantly, but duck their heads, nodding somewhat.

Bruce sits, mouth half open, having wanted to berate them, or, _something_ , but, then he sighs, smiling again, “That’s my girl,” he whispers, fondly, and Cass’s dark eyes lit up even more.

“I found him!” Dick’s voice comes from the stairs, accompanied by his quick footfalls as he sprints downstairs, Jason’s wrist encased in a loose grip. The younger boy’s trailing in his elder brother’s wake, eyes on his feet until Bruce stands up to acknowledge him—

“Jason,” there’s more than a little relief at seeing his son’s not hurt in any way, but – something else is clearly wrong.

Jason stops in his tracks at once, pulling his arm free of Dick’s grip, and Dick, who’s not expecting it at all, stutters a little in his step, but, nimble on his feet as he is, the former circus acrobat catches his balance with ease and turns to his little brother all at once, “What gives?”

Jason spares him an annoyed look as he stuffs his liberated hand into his other pocket, and fixes his glare on Bruce.


	61. Loitering ch12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 12 Dec 2016.

_bearing bad news_

* * *

“The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges.”

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

* * *

When awareness came slowly sinking back in, it was through the solidity of the cabinet at his back – the sharp handle digging into the muscle, the scars, there—

Jason pressed back, hard, desperate to feel grounded against something, even as the absurd possibility that he might slip right through it – fall into some unknown abyss – made him anxious—

Then he heard Dick.

It was jarring, for he couldn’t remember, for a moment, when the man had gotten there—

And then, he realised the memory eluded him, _because,_ Dick _had never_ gotten there—

Opening his eyes felt like something he had to force his body into, and with it came an involuntary tremor, rocking his limbs, like he’d snapped out of sleep-paralysis – only, he hadn’t gone to sleep—

Vaguely, he remembered, the shaking in his fingers, as he’d backed off of Tim – on his back, limbs jerking, while he mumbled, and giggled incomprehensively – and scooted as far away as he could get—

On his haunches, fingers pressing into his thighs while his breaths came ragged and irregular and Tim’s words danced through the quickly gathering fog in his head— _B—Bruce’s’d—dead—_

_—Bruce’s’d—_

_—dead—_

_—B—_

_—_

_—_

_—Bruce—_

_—‘s—d—_

_—_

_—_

_—dead—_

_—_

_—_

_—dead—_

_—_

_—Bruce—is—dead—_

—in a brief moment of clarity, he could hardly be sure had been real, he’d looked over to Tim – gaze having been on—the floor—the walls—the cupboards – and realised the words weren’t in his head, because they were still spilling from the kid’s mouth—

“Bruce is—

“—dead—

“Bruce—

“—Bruce is dead—

“Bruce is dead—d—

“—dead—

“Bruce is _dead_ —”

—

Before—

—

“A—ha-a—”

Laughter.

“Ah-HA— _ha-HA—A—!_ ”

Jason had practically _fallen_ back, hitting cabinets, drawing up his knees – arms, hands – as he folded into himself, shutting his eyes tight while he shook and struggled to breathe—

Tim laughing in his ears until he couldn’t hear him anymore.

“Haa-ha-ha—haha—HA—HEHE—HAA-HAA—heh—heh—heh—haha—HaHAHAA—haa-a-a-ha-a—

“Ha-hA-AAH-HA—ha-ha-haa—a-a—hehe—heh—Ha-HA—HA _HAHAA_ — _HAAA-HA—_ HAAA-AH-HA—

“HA-HA-HA _—HAA-HA—_ HA-HA _—HAA-HEH—_ HEH—HA _-A—HA-HAA—HA—HA—H **A** — **HA** —HA—HA—_

“ _AAH—HAA- **HA** -HA—H-HEH—HE—_

“ _HEEHEE-HEE—HAA- **HA** -HAA—HA— **HA** —H-HEH- **HA** —_

“—

“—

“—

“—

“—

“ _Ha_ —

“Hehe—heh—ha—

“—a—a—

“—

“—

”

…

…

…

…

…

… … … … … … … … … …. ….. …… .…. …. ….. …… ….. …. ….. …… ….. …. ….. …… ….. …

“ _—little brother—_

“—

“—it’s okay—it’s— _okay_ —

“Shhh—shh—sh-sh—”

—

Dick was on the floor, next to Tim, with one arm round the boy’s back, half-lifting him off the floor. Tim’s head hung back, and Jason watched Dick shift his elbow to support it, lift it so Dick could see his face, press his free hand to Tim’s cheek as he spoke—

Jason couldn’t make out the words.

His head was pounding.

“Dick—?” he breathed, squinting, not quite sure he knew what he was seeing, or where he was—

Dick looked around to him, though, pushing Tim’s inquisitive fingers away from his face – his throat – without looking—

He held the kid’s hand tight in his own.

It took him a moment to realise Dick was speaking.

“Are you okay?”

Jason blinked, and nodded distantly when Dick said his name, repeated the question again.

Jason moved, pushing himself to his feet against the cabinet, and clutching at door handles and the edge of the counter like he needed the support. Everything felt foggy, dizzying, and after a moment Jason concluded he must have blacked out at some point—

When Tim had laughed – Jason must have blacked out—

He shook his head fervently, ran a trembling hand through his hair, and took a deep breath.

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick said, insistently, and Jason looked down at him, still confused about how he’d even gotten there. “Water. For Tim. Please? I can’t let him go.”

Tim was a shaky mess in Dick’s arms, the kid’s hands tucked into his sleeves again, fingers tightly gripping the ends from inside—

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

At least, there wasn’t any sound.

“Right,” Jason mumbled, and pushed off the counter, passing the pair to get to the sink. When he turned about, a full glass in hand, he held it out to Dick expectantly. The older man didn’t so much as reach for it, though.

“Put it here,” he said instead, gesturing the floor with a flick of his head, before shifting his weight. “I need you to hold Tim for me.”

“What?” Jason blanched. “No.”

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick all but glared at him. “I don’t have time for your _crap_ right now. Tim _needs_ his medicine; if I don’t give it to him _right now_ , he could _die_. I can’t hold him down and give it to him at the same time, so _you_ – sit the fuck down.”

“O-okay,” Jason dropped to his knees just behind Tim, almost toppling over the glass as he set it on the floor. “Um—”

Dick lifted Tim into a sitting position, scooting closer to Jason and depositing the boy in Jason’s awkwardly held arms with his back to Jason’s chest.

“Just, hold his arms,” Dick instructed, allowing Jason’s hands to take the place of his own. Tim shook, almost struggled at the brief loss of contact and Jason had to tighten his hold. Dick took hold of his wrists and moved him, wrapping Jason’s arms around Tim’s, folding the kid’s across his chest to keep him steady. Tim’s legs kicked out, off to the side, once or twice, before settling into a perpetual twitch. His shoulders still shook with mute laughter.

“Don’t worry,” Dick said, voice quiet – soothing – while he pulled a bottle of pills from the pocket of his jacket and popped the cap. He tipped out two into the palm of his hand, and scooted closer still. “Everything’s going to be alright,” for a moment, Jason thought Dick was speaking to him, but, “Come on, Timmy…”

Dick pressed his hand against the side of Tim’s head, where it had lolled against Jason’s arm, and lifted so he was looking up. Getting a good look at his face now, Jason could see Tim’s eyes were wide open, wider than normal, while his lips spread into a big, unwavering grin.

It was all Jason could do not to lean back, distancing himself from that horrible expression – or gag altogether at the sight.

“Hold tight,” Dick spared Jason a warning glance, before he tipped one of the pills down Tim’s open mouth. At once Tim was thrashing, body trying to twist this way and that, only unsuccessful because Jason held him fast. He was shaking his head at the same time, and Jason was afraid he might sprain his neck with the force of it—

Dick had a fist in Tim’s hair not a moment later, however, and the glass in his free hand. “Come on, Tim,” he almost sounded like he was scolding the boy, as he put the edge of the glass to Tim’s tight bottom lip. “You have to swallow. You’ll feel better when you do, trust me—”

Tim’s response was some unintelligible sound, deep in the back of his throat, and if he tried shaking his head again, it was useless against Dick’s firm grasp.

Tim’s heart was a hellish drumbeat against Jason’s own, thudding too quickly.

Dick tipped the glass, spilling clear liquid into Tim’s gaping mouth, even as he held the boy more firmly by the hair, dissuading any physical protest—

Tim gargled the water—

His eyes held less mirth and more panic—

Jason was taking deep, anxious breaths, his fingers digging into Tim’s arms—

“ _Dick_ —!” he exclaimed, a fretful lilt to his brother’s name, when Dick clamped his free hand – glass set roughly aside – across Tim’s slipping grin, thumb and forefinger simultaneously holding his nose—

But Dick ignored him, fervently – desperately – whispering, “ _Swallow_ , dammit—”

It wasn’t long before Tim did, unable not to, and Dick let him go, only to come back with the second pill, repeating the process—

Finally, with an exhausted sigh, Dick leaned back on his hands, shoulders slumping with relief even as he kept a vigil eye on Tim’s expression – looking for the tell-tale signs that his medicine was starting to take effect.

Tim had already stopped thrashing, as if he’d decided the effort no longer mattered, since he’d swallowed the pills – or like his body just wasn’t up for the extended exertion anymore. Tim had been convulsing on the floor, seemingly endlessly, when Dick found him—

Absently, Dick shook his head, not wanting to relive the memory—

He watched Tim’s eyelids slowly start drooping, his posture sagging, arms relaxing in Jason’s hold, fingers slack in their sleeves—

 “ _Dick_ ,” Jason said, sounding distressed—

Dick jolted upright, immediately pressing his fingers to Tim’s pulse, cradling his head in one hand, “ _What_?” he looked to Jason and back again, Tim’s pulse a steady thump against his fingers.

Jason’s shoulders stiffened, “Is…” he hesitated, glancing down at Tim’s near-serene expression, sounding unsure. “Is he…alright?” he asked quietly.

Dick sighed, a small smile crossing his lips at Jason’s genuine concern, “Yeah,” he replied, sitting back. “It’s just the pills taking effect. He’ll be fine, now…” Dick brushed his fingers through Tim’s lengthy black hair, pushing them sideways across his sweaty forehead.

“Oh…” Jason said, posture noticeably relaxing, even though his hold on Tim didn’t slacken, eyes on the youngest between them, and, with his head bowed thus, long curls hiding his face. The smile slipped from Dick’s expression, hand retreating to settle fisted on his thigh, less he run his fingers through Jason’s locks as well.

He was sorely tempted to – a vague memory, fleetingly surfacing, of him having done that long after the two of them had met, too long after Dick had officially passed on Robin’s colours to his newly acquired _little brother_ – not replacement. Late one night – or, rather, early one morning – Jason drooling on the couch’s armrest, having fallen asleep halfway through their movie, and, just watching the kid like that after having spent most of the day and a fair portion of patrol with him, Dick had been filled with a sense of warmth and responsibility. He’d wanted to scoop Jason up and hold him close for a bit – overwhelmed by a yearning to protect he’d never thought he’d ever have the opportunity to feel. A big-brotherness he hadn’t known he’d wanted. He’d settled for combing back Jason’s hair affectionately, though, and shaking the kid by the shoulder to wake up.

It had been one of a few occasions – so few in fact, Dick thought he barely needed both hands to count them all – they’d spent any time together; that was a _good_ time, void of the pressure to impress or approve, the tension created by their other identities and what they meant to Batman, not to mention Batman himself, or Dick and Bruce’s quickly spiralling tolerance for each other at any given moment.

Dick dropped his gaze, accosted again by a fierce disappointment in himself for the way he’d let Jason down. He should have made sure there had been more of those moments. He’d certainly had plenty with Tim, even though it _had_ taken him a lot of time to get to the point where he could. Jason’s death had been such a _gaping_ wound, and Tim had been an insistent stranger. He’d treated him badly, too, at first.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, and, it must have seemed abrupt, if the way Jason’s head came up was any indication – just enough for Dick to make out the colour of his eyes, the intensity of his stare. The furrow to his brow was deep, expression caught somewhere between confusion, and _suspicion_ – as if Dick was about to tell him something…

…something he already should have—

“For not checking on you first,” Dick elaborated, before Jason could ask him what for, because, his intention hadn’t been to be vague, or to drag this out. There was genuine regret in the apology – because, the _way_ Jason had _looked_ when he’d come in—but – but he’d also said it, feeling the need for an appropriate segue. He didn’t want to just barrel through the doorway on this. “You weren’t listening to me…barely moving, even, just—”

Dick watched Jason’s expression closely as he spoke; the younger man’s stare only getting harder—

“Anyway, Tim was already—” Dick switched tracks, gesturing vaguely at their younger brother. “I had to do something, before it was too late…”

Jason nodded, and looked away – not back at Tim, but…into the depths of his apartment instead, down the hallway to Dick’s left, past his shoulder to the living room – eyes briefly narrowing when, Dick guessed, he saw the door – and toward the small kitchen space, finally.

Dick turned his head to look, as well, taking in Jason’s crushed bottle of milk, scattered cans and other groceries all strewn haphazardly across the floor, with greater concern.

“What happened, Jay?” he asked quietly, and watched Jason swallow. “Did you fight?” he asked plainly, voice hard, when Jason didn’t answer immediately. Dick wasn’t sure _what_ exactly he was asking – if he was assuming the worst of Jason—

“ _No_ ,” Jason replied, though, serious – adamant, _incredulous –_ meeting Dick’s eyes – his own, _bright_ green—and Dick—

—only felt the stiffness in his fingers, how tight he’d been holding them, when they relaxed – relieved.

“Okay,” Dick said at once, “So – what happened?” he repeated, eager to steer the conversation away from the accusation he knew Jason had heard, behind his previous question.

Jason’s lips thinned. He glanced at Tim, not knowing how honest he needed to be with Dick right now. “We had a conversation,” he decided on, and then rushed forward realising he didn’t want to rehash the details of _that_ “conversation” – or the one Tim had actually come over to have, either. “And Tim, he was—saying some things, when, all of a sudden he just—” letting go of one wrist, Jason waved a hand through the air in gesture – taking in Tim’s current state, the space they occupied, the two feet of kitchen flooded with milk—

Jason clasped Tim’s wrist again, firmly, as his breath stuttered and his head bowed lower – he felt sick. He should have—“I should have done something,” he mumbled, and shut his eyes tight as if that could cover the shame he felt, because—“I just,” all he could see was Tim, thrashing and _laughing_ behind his eyelids—“I was here, with him, one moment, and the next—you were here, and I—” he couldn’t quite look at Dick even as his head came up, eyes opened, wide with realisation, before he looked away again at once – not directly at Tim either—at his own hands against the dark grey of Tim’s hoodie—“It’s my fault—” he breathed.

“ _Hey_ , no,” was Dick’s immediate response, unsurprisingly to Jason, who shook his head in reply and cut Dick off even as his older brother’s hands came down on his shoulders, his arms, for comfort—

“You said – Tim could have… _died_ , without his medicine,” Jason said, feeling the weight of the words hang heavy over his head. And here, he finally looked at Dick, “I wasn’t helping him – I had _no idea_ what to do—I-I didn’t even _try!_ ” he implored, feeling the heat of embarrassment and shame, and self-loathing, and disappointment creeping from the centre of his chest all the way up his neck – touching his cheeks, his ears—

“ _Little Wing_ ,” Dick’s tone was equally as insistent, but he didn’t get much further—

Jason shook his head fervently, “He could have _died_ , Dick, while I was sitting around not doing a damned thing—”

“That’s enough!” Dick snapped, fingers tightening on Jason’s shoulders as he stared the younger man down.

Jason faltered, mouth agape, but no retort forthcoming, while his insides felt cold and the air not enough in his lungs—

He blinked. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, eyes lowering from Dick’s intense gaze, shoulders slumping—

He realised—he was _clutching_ at Tim. Feeling the rise and fall of the younger man’s chest, feeling his own chest stretched against his back – tightly pressed against Jason as he held him firmly caged in his arms—

If Jason hadn’t… _blacked out_ – might he have been able to coax Tim out of his manic attack? Maybe if he’d tried harder? Maybe if that obscene Joker-esque laugh didn’t have such a damning effect on his insides? Maybe if Tim hadn’t said—

—

—

Jason back-pedalled fast, not wanting to think about _that_ , again.

If it weren’t for Dick showing up out of apparently nowhere, Tim might have _died_ on his dirty kitchen floor while Jason sat three feet away none the wiser.

Trying so hard to find him, rescue him from the Joker, would have all been for nought.

And Dick…how would he have explained that to Dick, and Cassandra— _and Alfred_?

_Tim died in my apartment, while I was having a mental-breakdown; sorry I couldn’t save him. Tough luck, Big Bird._

“ _No_ ,” Dick said, sincerely, squeezing Jason’s shoulder – daring to press his palm to his little brother’s cheek—

Jason blinked, and stared, and swallowed – carefully shifting away from Dick’s touch—

Dick smiled a small smile nevertheless, “We’re _assuming_ ,” Dick began to explain, hand hovering a moment longer before he carefully retreated tight fists back to his thighs. “More than anything, that…this _thing_ Tim has,” he looked at his once-again youngest brother, the peaceful expression on his face… “ _could_ , potentially, kill him, if left untreated for too long. Only because, Joker’s Venom is commonly known to do that. Victims start laughing, and laughing, and laughing until they literally bust an organ, or, barring that, they go insane – hallucinating, doing crazy things, attacking people, exhausting themselves until their bodies are too weary and strained to keep functioning at all.

“All of which you know,” he added, waving a hand. “But…what the Joker did to Tim,” Dick continued, carefully glancing at Jason’s reaction to those words, remembering how his younger brother had protested – not wanting to know the details of Joker’s actions, before. Jason visibly flinched, if only slightly, but made no objection when Dick carried on, “It’s different than anything we’ve seen before. We’ve been able to keep it at bay for long periods of time, with this ‘medication,’ but even so…it’s pretty much _experimental_ , at best…potentially damaging, at worst – we don’t even know.

“There’s hardly any real way to gauge it,” he sighed, shoulders slumping. “It acts a little bit like a kind of infection. Or, maybe an allergen, even. The medication staves it off for a somewhat arbitrary amount of time. It always comes back on its own, regardless of how regularly Tim takes his medication,” Dick put a hand on Tim’s wrist, just beside Jason’s hand. He gave the younger man a brief smile, “Let me just—” Jason half let go, allowing Dick to uncross Tim’s arms so he could rifle through the boy’s pockets.

When the front pair yielded nothing, Dick reached into Tim’s still-unzipped hoodie to feel at apparent _inside_ pockets – producing a white plastic pill-bag a second later.

“But,” he continued, as he opened the baggie. “He does have a relatively set schedule, and he’s _supposed_ to always have some on him,” Dick had shook out the bag above one open palm, but, as he already suspected, nothing fell out. He sighed. “He should know better than this. He should have refilled it before leaving the house!” Dick snapped at no-one, even though he was looking at Tim.

He looked more disappointed than angry, however.

And then, he just looked _crushed_. “There’s always a chance it will hit him out of _nowhere_. There are… _triggers_ that make it act up again. It’s hard to predict exactly _what_ those triggers will be at any given moment—”

“I should’ve known,” Jason said, though it sounded like he was speaking more to himself than trying to cut into Dick’s little monologue. Dick frowned at him, watched him carefully as he carried on, still not talking to Dick directly, “The way our conversation was going… If I had _known_ about—this _thing_ ,” he griped, for lack of a more precise term, “If I had just _asked_ – or—or _let_ one of you tell me – what the Joker did—” he all but whispered, “—maybe I could’ve stopped him, from—” he didn’t know how to even describe it, so he just didn’t. Stopped speaking, knowing Dick knew what he meant.

And, Dick did know, but—

“I don’t know…” Jason mumbled; tone quiet – defeated.

“None of us wanted that of you, Jay,” Dick said gently. “We know how _hard_ having anything to do with the Joker must—must have been for you. Must _be_ for you, even now. It was hard for us to hear what had happened to Tim – when he finally told us himself. I can’t imagine what _you’d_ feel if you’d have had to listen to that,” Dick shook his head, forlorn. “Considering everything the Joker did to you, too, and everything that came after, after you were back…” he bit his lip, “I could probably not have told you, even if you’d asked…”

“Still,” Jason said, at length, still refusing to excuse himself it seemed. “The fact is I didn’t ask. And I _should_ have.”

Dick pinched Tim’s empty pill-bag between his fingers, pressed tight, and didn’t know what to say without losing his temper – at Jason’s self-deprecating attitude; Dick just didn’t want to have to deal with it anymore right then.

“I was scared…” Dick confessed, after a beat. “That, maybe this time…” the air felt heavy between them. “This time it’d be too bad. I’d be too late. And…we’d lose Tim. To Joker, like we lost you,” he said, blunt and harsh, and looking up at Jason’s face – but of course the younger man wasn’t looking at him. “I might have been over-exaggerating, though…just a bit,” he added, more kindly. “I mean – the _worst_ case, we can only _assume_ …is death, but… There’s no way of knowing, I guess? Not until after it’s too late.”

It was quiet, then. Neither brother able to look at the other, or break the silence for a long, painful minute—

—as the minutes between them often seemed to be.

“You had enough reason to believe it would, though—kill him,” Jason spoke quietly. “And if it had, I—I don’t know what I would have done… How I would have lived with myself – with any of _you_ ,” he admitted, and felt the truth of it deep in the marrow of his bones. He’d already caused them so much grief, agony, and _pain_ with what he’d done with Damian – and worse, he couldn’t begin to regret his actions in that regard, but— _Tim_.

 _This_. Would have been _so much worse._ Tim could have been _dead_ , and it would _really_ have been Jason’s fault.

His coming back had been a _fluke_ at best.

There was no guarantee like that for any of them anymore.

“But he _didn’t_ ,” Dick whispered.

“Only thanks to _you_ – breaking down my door,” Jason replied, peeved only half-heartedly, as he looked beyond Dick’s shoulder. The chain had been the only thing keeping the door locked before. It was snapped now, the door left ajar, and Jason could only assume Dick had kicked it open, chain be damned, and rushed in without any regard for potentially curious neighbours appearing.

To his great relief, none of them had as of yet. This time of day, they weren’t generally at home, after all, but – one could hardly ever be _too_ careful.

_—there’s that infamous Bat-paranoia at work._

“Yeah…” Dick said, sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

“How did you even know where to find us?” Jason asked, genuinely perplexed.

“I pinged Tim’s phone the moment it came on,” Dick explained, and Jason nodded knowingly – apparently, the kid had been telling the truth about that, then, “It was only for a second, though,” or, at least, mostly, “But it was enough to get me an address. I rushed over right away. I had no idea I was going to find you here. I didn’t know _what_ I was going to find here.”

“You told Alfred where you were going, didn’t you?” Jason asked, bemused.

“Of course,” Dick replied, curiosity colouring his tone as he picked up on Jason’s own.

“Didn’t he recognize the address?” Jason questioned, and Dick blinked, not bothering to hide any surprise.

“No. Should he have?”

“I…don’t know,” Jason said, eyes on the top of Tim’s head, expression calculating. “Tim said Alfred told him where I was; that’s how he found me.”

“He’d have told me, then,” Dick said confidently, and then, after a beat, “Timmy must have…”

“Lied,” Jason supplied, if quietly.

Dick pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes on Tim, but he made no reply.

Jason snorted, “I guess he’s not the _perfect_ little replacement, after all…”

“He was _never_ your _replacement,_ Jason,” Dick said, pointed and exasperated – because this was not the first time someone had tried to explain this to Jason.

Jason gave his brother a dry, uncaring look, though, ignoring Dick’s tone. “Sure.” He added quickly, just as Dick had drawn a breath to retort, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dick huffed, annoyed, “Well, _that’s_ typical,” he rolled his eyes.

“Excuse me?” Jason challenged.

“If you don’t want to discuss it, you shouldn’t have brought it up,” Dick said.

“I was only _saying_ —” Jason started, but cut himself off, irately swiping a hand through the air, “You know what – never mind. I got replaced; it’s my prerogative to bring it up. _And_ end the discussion about it.”

“Not that there’s _been_ a discussion, yet,” Dick mumbled, though not quietly enough.

“I think you should take your little bird,” Jason said, almost abrupt with the calmness of his tone. “And leave.”

“Jason—

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Dick implored, genuine despite his obvious frustration. He heaved a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping. He was feeling—

Confused. And a little _hurt_ , somehow. Maybe for Tim’s benefit? But – _how_ could Jason still think of Tim as his _replacement_? Was this what Jason had meant – when he’d said nothing had changed after his conversation with Bruce?

“But,” Dick added, and braced himself, “‘My little bird’ came all the way here without telling me, or Cass, or Alfred,” Jason very carefully didn’t _wince_ at the absence of Bruce’s name on that list, “and _without his medication_ – when he _knows_ how much he needs it,” he paused. “Why is that? What was he doing here, exactly?”

Jason stuck his tongue in his cheek, contemplating.

“If you don’t want to talk about anything else, that’s fine,” Dick goaded. “But I’m not going anywhere until you tell me this.”

“You can just ask him yourself, you know,” Jason sniped. “In between the lecture, when he wakes up.”

Dick scowled. “No. _You_ tell me. I’m asking you.”

…

…

…

Finally, Jason gave in to Dick’s hard stare – if only partially, “He wanted… to tell me something… _important_ ,” Jason was gauging Dick’s reaction, if he were honest. Part of him wanted to bait Dick into confessing it – was already trying to. Because – how long had Bruce been dead? And, it wasn’t _Dick_ – desperate-to-have-him-for-a-little-brother-Dick – at his door with the news? If _Tim_ in his addled state could find Jason, he was certain Dick, all his eggs accounted for, _could have_ , too. Then why hadn’t Jason heard it _earlier_? From _Dick_ himself? He’d had opportunity, _dammit_ —

“And…” Dick started, but there was hesitation in his tone. Of course Dick knew _exactly_ what Tim was doing here. He’d been arguing with his little brother all week over letting Jason know about—

And.

Tim had not agreed with Dick putting it off for as long as he was doing. When they’d realised Tim had left the manor without telling anyone or leaving some kind of note or indication as to where he was going – Dick had known he might have gone looking for Jason. _Of course_. He just hadn’t been expecting Tim to actually find Jason.

“Did he?” Dick swallowed thickly, and tried looking more relaxed than he felt. If Tim’s condition when he’d come in was any indication – that was exactly the kind of news that might have triggered so severe an attack. Not to mention Jason’s own state—“Did he tell you—the important thing?” it came out so much quieter than what Dick had thought it would. And he realised, he was losing his nerve. What if the answer was _yes_ —?

What if it was—?

“No,” Jason said, too quick and too abrupt and too final for it to be true—

“Who’s the liar, now?”

Jason started – as did Dick – at _Tim_ suddenly interjecting. Jason could feel his face flush at the lie, besides, and his fingers tighten their hold on Tim involuntarily – less as a threat to the kid, and more as a means of anchoring _himself_.

“Tim!” Dick exclaimed, and had his hands on the side of the younger man’s face at once.

Tim’s eyes were open, and _blue_ , and on Jason’s face, and _knowing_ – the curve of his lips almost smug and testing, and _challenging_ – but thankfully _Tim_ , not—something _else—_

—some _one_ —

“I’m fine,” Tim directed at Dick, who still pushed his hair back, and felt at his forehead, at his pulse. “Ease up, will you,” Tim said, as he started shifting, and both Dick and Jason let him go, sitting back.

Tim came upright with a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck with both hands. Jason watched his fingertips come free of their sleeves to _press_ at his skin there and he swallowed, resisting the urge to feel at his own neck, where Tim had dug in and held on with those same fingers.

Everything had happened so quickly after Tim had tried _strangling_ him – and now he was sitting there like nothing had.

Jason scowled.

“Why is this empty?” Dick’s tone was scolding, and, looking over Tim’s shoulder, Jason could see he had the pill-bag up, shaking it in front of Tim’s face in exactly the manner Jason had thought he’d do.

Jason saw Tim’s shoulders stiffen.

“I just forgot,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“You _know better_ ,” Dick continued. Tim must have pulled a face, Jason figured, because Dick clamped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave him an intense look, saying, “ _Tim_. This is _serious_.”

“Yes. _Fine_. I got it,” Tim scathed, to Jason’s surprise, and shrugged Dick’s hand off even as he got to his feet. “I’ll do better next time, _okay_?”

“Tim,” Dick said again, somewhere between aggravation and defeat, as he stood.

Jason followed suit, but tugged Tim by the shoulder once he was up, to turn the younger man halfway in his direction. “I told you he’d be worried,” Jason said, almost smugly. Tim gave him a dry, unimpressed look, to which Jason shrugged.

With a huff, Dick caught Tim by the arm, “Come on. We’ve overstayed our welcome. Let’s go home.”

Tim forced his arm free, however, and looked at Dick incredulously, “You’re kidding, right?”

“ _Tim_ ,” Dick half-hissed, expression warning.

“Yeah. Get out,” Jason said, waving a hand as if to shoo them.

Tim turned to scowl at him before facing Dick again. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Dick was being an absolute _dick_. “We’re not leaving until you tell him.”

Jason stiffened, knowing full-well what Tim was referring to, and assumed he must be thinking Jason hadn’t heard him the first time, or hadn’t taken him seriously. By the look Dick was giving Tim, though, Jason concluded his hunch was correct – Dick w _as_ trying to hide it from Jason. He _didn’t_ want him to know Bruce was dead.

Dick all but confirmed it in the next moment, catching Tim securely by the arm and lowering his voice, gaze intent and fixed on Tim, but Jason still heard, “ _Not_ right now.”

It stung, and the pain was a new kind of hurt Jason had no desire to keep on feeling. It made his stomach turn.

“ _Tell him_ , Dick,” Tim kept his tone level, but didn’t lower his voice any, unconcerned about Jason hearing. “Or _I_ will.”

“Look, whatever it is,” Jason cut in, turning their attention to him. He swallowed uncomfortably, “I don’t even _care_ – just go.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Tim dismissed, at the same time Dick tugged uselessly at his arm—

“Come on—”

Completely ignoring Dick, eyes boring into Jason’s, determined expression on the kid’s face; Tim visibly gulped in a brief breath before he started, “Jason, Bruce is—”

“ _Don’t_ say it again,” Jason snapped, panic rippling through his limbs and propelling his arm up, hand all but slapping Tim’s mouth shut—

Tim recoiled, backing up into Dick, who caught him by the arms to steady him – both of them staring wide-eyed at Jason—

He’d only _just_ panicked, _just_ cut Tim off, when his stomach _churned_ , and he could _feel_ every morsel he’d had for breakfast and been munching on since, shooting back up his oesophagus—

He spun to hunch over the sink, vomiting all over his unwashed dishes with a violent shudder.

“Jason—” Dick was next to him in a second, hovering with his hands raised uncertainly.

Jason gagged a second time, shoulders hunching, arms and hands and fingers feeling like their bones were vibrating. He breathed, bottom lip trembling, and the inside of his mouth watering, a trail of spittle dangling into the sink.

“I’m so sorry,” Dick whispered by his side, finally letting his hand drop to Jason’s back, rubbing soothing circles the way he’d been doing for Tim – Tim who’d hunched his shoulders and looked away the moment Jason turned to vomit. He’d looked back by now, though, Dick saw when he looked over at their youngest brother – to scowl at him. He was furious with Tim, he realised – for leaving the manor without a word and putting himself in danger, only to come over to Jason’s – and how the hell did he even _know_ where Jason lived?! – and _tell him the thing_ Dick had thought they’d _agreed_ to hold off on. Until Dick could _find_ Jason again, anyway. The Red Hood hadn’t disappeared from Gotham altogether, but rumour was he was on a very particular case that was taking up all of his time. It was hush-hush and he was scarce. Dick had tried the safe-house Alfred had known about the past couple of nights, and a few others he’d unearthed over the course of the year, but none of them had given him a clue. He’d left Jason notes, and they’d been left unanswered so far. Probably Jason hadn’t even found them yet.

All the while, Dick had been trying to deal with his own mounting grief after Bruce’s passing – while trying to comfort Cass and Tim both, and keeping his chin up for Alfred, and—

And he’d had no idea what Jason’s reaction would have been. He just…needed a little more _time_.

Tim…

Well, Dick didn’t know what the hell Tim had been thinking.

Could hardly determine his expression at present, for that matter. He was unfazed by the scowl, returning Dick’s gaze with a level expression of his own. “He deserves to know,” Tim said simply.

Dick only looked at him harder, free hand fisting, “I’m not arguing over _that_ ,” he said tightly. “But there was no need to do it like _this_. Right _now_.”

Tim returned his scowl, before crossing his arms and looking away. Dick rolled his eyes.

“Hand me that,” he said shortly, gesturing the glass on the floor. Tim scooped to obey, and Dick emptied the glass in the other side of the sink, refilling it with cool water.

Jason had heard what they’d been saying, of course, and he’d listened without a word. Partly because he was feeling shaky and sick, and a headache was slowly making itself known. He’d pressed his palm against his forehead, other hand on the counter by the sink, and closed his eyes once it felt like he wouldn’t throw up anything more.

“Here,” Dick said gently, touching at his raised arm to get his attention.

Jason turned enough to take the glass, sipping slowly. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, all the while keeping his head ducked, while Dick looked around for a hand towel. Jason took it to wipe his mouth with after he’d set down the glass, then handed it back to Dick to hang up neatly where he’d found it.

Jason turned his head to regard Tim, scowling at a wall.

“You’re a real piece of work, kid,” he said.

“I got it from you,” Tim replied, easy and flippant.

“Cute,” Jason said crossly, scowling. “But flattery won’t help you here.”

Tim snorted, opened his mouth like he meant to retort, but Dick cut in, hands raised between them—

“Okay, stop.”

Tim shut his mouth, but glared at Jason, who glared right back before he looked away with a groan.

Not ten minutes ago he’d been _frickin’_ _cradling_ Tim in his damn arms, scared—

—

—

— _shit_ —

—

—

— _scared_ that the younger man might be _dead_ any second, and now here he was, thoroughly annoyed at him and his smartass mouth.

Jason swallowed thickly, the sour taste of vomit no less present for the water he’d drunk, and the unpleasantness of it a suitable punishment for his present attitude.

He felt guilty again.

But no less pissed.

“…Don’t get me started on _you_ , Dickie,” Jason said, somewhat belatedly.

Dick dropped his hands, and, to his credit, didn’t pretend at ignorance, “Jason, I’m _sorry_ ,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s not like I have your number,” he added in a mumble, spiking Jason’s annoyance, because _that_ what a shitty excuse.

“You saw me _Monday morning_. By the docks,” Jason accused, meeting Dick’s eyes with a twisted expression he couldn’t manage to keep off his face, but – his older brother just watched him vomit into a sink; there was hardly any justification left for hiding things now.

“Yeah. I saw you,” Dick said evenly, but his fingers were flexing and his shoulders were too straight. “All suited up, just sitting on a roof, keeping an eye,” he faltered, glancing away, swallowing. “You looked busy, though. I didn’t want to— _interrupt_ —”

It was a testament to his discomfort that Dick wasn’t gesturing with his hands or stepping further into Jason’s space as he tried, only half-heartedly, to justify—

The man felt guilty as sin; Jason could see it all over his face, and Jason—

It was _satisfying_ , dammit.

“Oh! The old ‘you were busy’-excuse. I love that one,” Jason said, attempting false humour, exaggerated sarcasm – _something_ – and sounding only _bitter_.

“Jason—”

“How _long_ , Dick?” Jason spat, dropping the attitude for all the aching desperation he felt curdling beneath the surface, even as he wasn’t sure it was more out of seriousness and less out of spite. Dick had practically frozen at the question, his blue eyes widening just a fraction – Jason noticed because he’d been looking for it. Tim, in his peripheral, had his own blue eyes fixed on Jason, having gone just as still.

“How long has he been _dead_ , _Dick_?” Jason demanded, when the older man didn’t immediately answer.

“…It happened Sunday,” Dick’s voice was no louder than a whisper. “Sunday morning.”

The next moment Jason was heaving, eyes on the floor, where, apparently, he’d shattered the glass of water Dick had handed him before. He’d reached back, searching for the edge of the counter and gripping it with a steadying hand—

It was too soon—

—

—he’d wanted more time. He’d wanted to go back to—

—one of his many _not_ -mothers—

—to ask her _again_ – beg if he needed to—

Bruce couldn’t.

Jason couldn’t.

—but she’d told him “no,” and explained again, and Jason had left feeling—

Abandoned.

And betrayed.

And stupid.

But still desperate.

Still vaguely determined.

He’d meant to try again—he _knew_ – _he knew_ – what he’d been asking; the consequences of it – having gone through it himself, after all, but—

He hadn’t cared at the time.

He’d have agreed to do almost anything if she’d only said—

Yes.

—

It was too late, now.

“Jay…” Dick spoke, careful, and when Jason looked at him, he saw Tim at his side – shoulders hunched, looking small – and Dick’s hand loose around his wrist—

Jason looked back to the glass on the floor – to Tim – and back again – to where Tim had been standing—

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

“Okay,” came the reply, and, Jason was startled to find, it had come from Tim instead of Dick, sounding perfectly amenable.

They stared at each other for several quiet seconds; Dick shifting his weight from one foot to another as the silence mounted.

“It’s Thursday,” Jason breathed, when the tail-end of their conversation suddenly came back to him. Eyes on Dick, he scowled.

“I know,” his older brother agreed.

“Were you just going to keep this from me?” Jason asked, surprising even himself with how despondent and _broken_ he sounded. He didn’t know if he meant what he asked, or if it was the spite in his gut blindly accusing—

“No—”

“You _saw me_ Monday—I was _one building away!_ ” Jason sounded to himself like he was pleading.

Dick had let go of Tim – who’d crossed his arms tightly over his chest, fingers hidden inside sleeves – raised his hands, but didn’t move them, “It was—” he griped, a burn at the back of his throat, “—still too _fresh_ , for me—”

“Always about you—” Jason waved a hand, dismissive.

“I didn’t _know_ how to tell you then!” Dick slammed one fisted hand onto the counter beside them. Tim jumped. “And _yes_ , I _didn’t_ want to,” he continued, heatedly, shooting a brief, accusatory glance at Tim. “I didn’t want to tell you out in the dark,” Dick came forward, too quick, words biting, “and the cold, wearing masks and using codenames—we’re a _family_!” despite having seen it coming, and trying to move, to back off, to avoid – Dick still managed grabbing Jason by his sweater. He held him there, pinned with his back against the counter, Dick’s forearms solid against Jason’s chest, and it was all Jason could do not to slip across the tiles and sink to the floor. He clutched at the lip of the counter, watched Dickie’s expression.

“I looked for you after,” Dick’s lashes were wet, “I checked your safe houses; I _tried_ to find you,” his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I _wanted_ to tell you – _of course_ you deserve to know,” his tone held a modicum of resentment – towards Jason, towards Tim, for them thinking otherwise of him, but Dick couldn’t care less whether they realised that or not, just then. “I just didn’t know how you would react,” he shook his head, breaking his eye-contact with Jason, “and I wanted you _safe_ ,” the words came a little slower, a little quieter, but no less urgently, “and _home_ —” and then his voice cracked, and Dick swallowed a breathy sob, his head falling forward, forehead touching his hands still holding tight to the fabric of his little brother’s clothing. “…when I did…”

…

…

…

Jason couldn’t calm the beat of his pulse, even though the knowledge that Dick could feel it made him nervous. Dick’s shoulders weren’t shaking. He didn’t sound like he was crying. Somehow that made it worse.

Jason let his head fall back. Blinked at the ceiling. He breathed in a shuddering breath, unable to suppress it, and Dick stayed, moving with his heaving chest.

“I’m so sorry…” Dick whispered.

“Dick…” Tim started, quietly, arms no longer stiff, posture less rigid and reserved. Coming closer, he lifted a hand to Dick’s shoulder, but didn’t make it all the way there, left his hand hanging in the air instead. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he said. “You never…you didn’t,” Jason watched as the kid swallowed, looked away, and, for the first time he looked like he was feeling the weighty consequences of his actions. “This is my fault…” he whispered.

With a sniff, Dick came upright, swallowing as his gaze met Jason’s – shiny, clear tear-tracks ran down his cheeks, making Jason’s breath hitch.

“No, Tim,” Dick said, wiping his face with the palms of both hands before facing him. Jason didn’t move even though he was let go. “You were right. We should have been here sooner.”

Tim didn’t say anything until Dick offered a small smile and Jason straightened himself out. “Okay,” came Tim’s eloquent reply.

“Well, you’ve said your piece,” the room felt suffocating, now that the adrenalin had faded and the heat ebbed. Jason couldn’t even feel angry at Dick anymore, after that display. Perhaps it truly had been nothing but spite egging him on before.

“Saturday,” Dick cut off, without looking back at him, needing to say this before they got kicked out. “The funeral, you should come—”

Jason grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket, shaking roughly; snarling, “ _Get out_.”

“Not until you _promise_ ,” Dick countered, clasping Jason’s wrist and meeting his gaze almost fearlessly.

Jason glared, said, slowly and deliberately, “ _No_.”

“He’s your father,” Dick said, maintaining his calm despite the turn of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, or the red rimming his eyes. The expression was jarring to Jason, but he made himself keep looking anyway.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dick threatened, holding tighter, before Jason could reply – afraid he might repeat the “no.” “ _Of course he is_.” A beat. “Was,” he amended quietly. “And I want you to be there. Tim wants you there. Cass, too. And _Alfred_ ,” Dick said like that was the clincher. “ _Please_.”

Jason’s mouth felt thick like cotton, his throat sore and his stomach twisting, tongue heavy as lead—

“We need you there, too, Jay,” Dick kept whispering.

_“Don’t reject him out of hand. He needs—”_

“You’re part of the family—”

_“—he needs his…his…little brother—s.”_

“Please. Leave,” Jason said, when he could finally speak again, and let go of Dick’s jacket. His wrist slipped right out of Dick’s hand to fall to his side.

“Come on…” it was Tim’s voice, quiet, and in the corner of his vision – Jason having dropped his gaze to the floor – he could see Tim tugging Dick away by the arm. “…He needs some time, Dick…”

…

…

…

…

Distantly, he heard the door shut.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Jason was only half-aware of himself as he walked – weary and heart sore – to the couch – shoving the coffee table aside with his foot, almost violently, rather than circling it—

—where he flopped down face first into the pillows. Crying.


	62. Loitering ch13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written Dec 2017/Jan 2018.  
> I never posted it anywhere. It was meant to be longer, originally, but I see I finished it off at some point, intending to save the rest for a following chapter.

_promises we refused to make_

* * *

“Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.”

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

 Even as frosty white snow adorned Gotham’s streets and sidewalks in layers upon layers of falling flakes, collected on window panes and flat rooftops, and strings of flickering red and green and white lights circled lampposts, dangled in corner store windows and decorated tall pine trees in almost every garden this side of Gotham—

Jason was not feeling any Christmas cheer.

It should not have mattered. He hadn’t celebrated the holidays since before he’d died, but—

Reminders of the festive season felt heavier than it ever had before in the shadow of the day’s event, looming closer with every passing minute; every nearing step.

Mumbling polite “excuse me’s,” Jason pressed his way through the crowd until he was just close enough to see past the heads of some of the taller reporters, without being immediately spotted from the front himself.

At the top of the steps, behind a podium in front of the closed gates, stood Dick, already having begun his address—

“—know, Bruce had been ill for…quite some time. And, we have, admittedly, been tight-lipped about _how_ ill, and, _what_ illness it…was. And, we intend to release that information at a separate, formal address,” the crowd muttered, grumbled, among themselves, but Dick paid them little mind, and carried on instead.

“As for today. We are…” he shifted his weight, more uncomfortable than he had been expecting. Bruce’s name had appeared in the obituaries of every newspaper in the city, two short days prior, and reporters from whatever newspapers had such inclinations, were invited to the church’s front steps to receive Dick’s speech. There had been much debate over who would be speaking to them. Alfred had been an option, but, it seemed less appropriate than one of the man’s sons, considering public appearances. The more preferred choice would have been Tim. _Were_ he in any condition, which – he was not.

“I want to tell you,” Dick said, abruptly starting over. “A little bit about Bruce, because… He’s been— _badly_ ,” he allowed, “portrayed by,” he gestured them, “the media – if not all of you, then, certainly _some_ ,” he said, not meeting anyone’s eye in particular, but taking note of their crossing arms or shifting stances, broken glances at anything but him, “in the past. Bruce was, a very complicated man,” he continued, fond. “And I suppose, those complexities didn’t translate well to just any other people. Not even, sometimes, his own people,” somewhere in the middle of the press stood a dark-haired man seemingly much shorter than he actually was. At Dick’s words, he met the young man’s blue eyes with his own, allowing an, admittedly somewhat bitter, if affectionate smile, to touch the corner of his mouth whilst he adjusted his glasses slightly.

Briefly, Dick returned the smile, “But, despite whatever flaws he had – and, they were numerous, as with all people,” broody with the weight of his concern; for Gotham and his parents’ legacy, before, finally, concern for his own family, his friends, and, eventually, what would become of them without him, and, what had he done to them, allowing them into this life and exposing them to his never-ending mission—

_“Have I done right by you…”_

“Bruce had always been a _good man_. He loved me, the way, I remember, my own father – my mother – loved me.

 “He gave me a home, and a family when I had none, because, he understood what that felt like. I received a good education. I was loved – by him, and Alfred, and, my other siblings, adopted though we were.

“My younger brother, Jason, who…we lost much too soon,” Dick said solemnly, scanning the crowd for a set of blue-green eyes, a tuft of white hair he was foolishly hoping to see, even as he expected he wouldn’t. “Who Bruce had always, _always_ missed, and always loved. In who, Bruce saw a potential for… _greatness_ , anyone else might have overlooked simply because Jason came from an impoverished neighbourhood.

“But Bruce had _seen_ him, and admired him, for his intelligence, and his tenacity, and his _bravery_. And he didn’t want that little kid to be swallowed by Gotham’s underbelly and be spat out into the world a criminal at worst. He gave Jason opportunity, and allowed him to benefit from Bruce’s privilege, and,” Dick smiled, reminiscent. “My little brother did not squander any chances. In the end…he was simply, dealt a very bad hand…”

_“Tim…?”_

…Dick cleared his throat, mentally scolding himself, before he continued above the gloomy silence, “And, Timothy Drake-Wayne, whose family had been close to the Wayne name since before Bruce’s parents passed. It was only natural, that, when Tim lost both his parents, as well, that Bruce took him in. Tim had already been part of the family, and my little brother, for a long time by then,” Dick smiled as he said it, and then just barely avoided flinching at the words – grateful now that he had not spotted Jason among the onlookers; _“—_ perfect _little replacement, after all…”_ echoed at the back of his mind.

Dick scowled at his hands on the podium and then, minutely, shook his head and moved on, determined, “Cassandra Wayne is our sister. And, while she hasn’t been in the media much – not for lack of trying on your part, I know,” he added on a whim, smiled charmingly, and watched some faces don admitting smiles of their own, “She has been _so_ involved in Gotham’s communities.

“Cassandra contributes to the management and upkeep of charity organisations, she’s involved in community projects, she does so much volunteer work, and—”

_“Stephanie, and—Cassie—?”_

“I’m not surprised if none of you know this, because, Cassandra…doesn’t do these things for – _credit_. Or, acknowledgement.

“She does them because she loves to. She loves to give. She _wants_ to make a genuine difference – among the people, for the people, on every front she can. She wants to better herself through the betterment of others.

“When Bruce found her she had no family. She’d been alone for so long, it was a journey for all of us—adopting her. It was not a long journey, and, often, it feels less as though _we_ adopted her, and, more like _she_ adopted us,” Dick grinned.

“She saw…a kindred spirit in Bruce. A man who cared. Whose…” he paused, solemn. “ _Mission_ , in _life_ , was to serve other people. To make up for, the _loss_ Gotham – and he – suffered, when his parents were taken from him. And, moreover, to ensure _no one_ else, would have to feel that same loss.

“Cassandra, and each of us, embraced that mission.”

_“Jason?”_

“And now, even though Bruce…is gone.

“Adopted as we are – blood of the coven, and all that. Bruce carried the legacy of his parents. He made their name proud. That legacy, and that name – lives on. In _us_.

“He was…a great man. A great father,” Dick set his feet, kept his chin up, feeling more confident than he had at the start. “He loved all of us; it didn’t matter to him _where_ we came from. He loved—” Dick looked over the faces before him, locked eyes with as many people as he could—

Jason shifted his feet, but, couldn’t look away from Dick’s blue-eyed gaze. He swallowed, past the lump and the sting in his throat, and tried not to blink less it sent the tears on his lashes cascading down his cheeks. Dick’s own eyes shimmered with unshed tears—

“— _you_ —”

Jason looked away, holding his crossed arms tighter to his chest.

_“And…and Damian…”_

Dick waved a hand, stilted, as he blinked back tears, and tried to encompass the people, the city, “He loved all of you,” he repeated, half mumbling. “I’m not always,” he continued, a little louder, trying to recover some composure. “Certain. About religion,” he confessed. “Sometimes, it’s difficult to depend on, difficult to find, just… _difficult_. Yet, I – keep turning back to it.

“I want to believe…Bruce truly is in that…‘better place.’ That his soul has…time to _rest_ , now. That he’s…” Dick took a stuttering breath. “With his son. With Damian,” remarkably, he didn’t stumble over the boy’s name. “And they’re content,” he pressed on. “In the knowledge, that, _we_ – mourn them, and we miss them, _beyond words_ , but…while we might _bend_ without them—

“We are not broken.

“We _will not_ break.

“Gotham is still in good hands. In the hands of the Waynes.”

Deliberately, Dick locked eyes with Jason again, saw the streaks down his little brother’s cheeks and knew they mirrored his own.

“Every one of us.”

_“Of course you did, Bruce…Dad.”_

Dick turned his back, ignoring the outburst from the crowd – some quiet applause, and a chorus of voices and stomping feet as they made up the steps, calling for him to answer questions. His attention was already elsewhere, as he slipped through the gate, held open by a police officer, who locked it securely behind him again.

“Uncle Clark,” Dick whispered, urgent. “Jason’s in the crowd with you – bring him round, _please_.”

There was no way for Clark Kent – Superman – to reply in confirmation that he’d heard or do as requested, but, as Dick marched across the church yard toward the side-gate, he had no doubt that Clark would have.

Relieving the officer on guard for the moment, Dick opened the gate to admit Bruce’s old friend. Clark’s broad shoulders filled the open space as Dick tugged back on the rusty old gate to provide enough room for him to pass. Without a word, Clark clasped his shoulder, smiled briefly, squeezed, and then let go even as he stepped away and wandered off. Dick looked after him, mouth agape as though he’d meant to say something, but didn’t. He swallowed thickly, and turned back to the gate, finding nothing beyond it.

Dick sighed. He clutched at the gate with both hands and started forward with it, when suddenly a leather-clad hand caught the thick iron between his own, halting his progress—

“Jason!” Dick breathed, and grinned at his younger brother. He moved, releasing the gate, instinctively reaching to hug the younger man, before he caught himself and stopped mid-movement – remembering their last encounter in Jason’s apartment. How unpleasantly it had ended.

Jason watched him wordlessly, chewing at the inside corner of his mouth. Dick, awkwardly, gestured with his left arm at the rest of the churchyard instead of bridging the gap between them, “Um,” the corners of his mouth lifted briefly, into a careful smile. “Hey.”

Jason licked at his dried lips, and gripped the gate tighter, shifted his weight, and advanced before he could change his mind, ducking his free arm under Dick’s left and snaking it round the man’s back, tucking his chin into Dick’s shoulder. Dick stiffened – rigid as a board, like he’d never been hugged before—

Jason squeezed. _Minutely_.

“A little on the nose, big brother?” he whispered just beside Dick’s ear, and made to move away again, but, Dick had come out of his stupor and was wrapping his arms around Jason determinedly.

“Couldn’t help it,” he mumbled into his younger brother’s shoulder, squeezing his stinging eyes shut and pressing Jason impossibly closer with his firm grip, even as the younger man loosened his. “I’m just—” ‘Grateful’? ‘Happy’? Sounded wrong. “You’re here,” he said instead, like a prayer.

“Okay—” Jason replied, voice tight, as he shifted his shoulders, stepped slightly back—

Dick released him at once, brushing his hands across Jason’s back; touching his elbows like he meant to make sure Jason wasn’t going to vanish if he let him go. But, when Dick smiled at him then, it lingered.

“Let me just close this,” Dick offered, before the silence could drag on, as he took hold of the gate once more. “And I’ll walk you over.”

Jason nodded, stiffly, wiping the palms of his hands against his dark jeans like he meant to rub off sweat, though he neglected to remove the gloves first.

Dick gestured the officer over, who took up his post in front of the gate again, and together, they wandered towards the church.

“So, Clark’s here, obviously,” Dick said, partly to fill the silence, and partly to calm his sudden bout of nerves. “And his family. Jim – who kindly lent us some security,” needlessly, he threw his thumb back over his shoulder in gesture. “And Barbara, of course. Stephanie, and—the entire family,” he shrugged, looked over at Jason—

His hands had disappeared into the deep pockets of his jeans, and his jaw was stiff, like he had his teeth clenched tight, gaze set resolutely forward.

When Dick didn’t look away at once, Jason’s gaze snapped to him like a flinch, “Hm? Oh. Yeah. Okay,” he said, but didn’t look as strictly ahead as they finally rounded the building, and found themselves several long strides from the church’s steps—

Alfred, in a pressed black suit, stood on the top-most step, quietly speaking to Clark. At their feet sat Cassandra, clad in black from neck to knee in a long-sleeved dress, with stockings to match, and a grey scarf wrapped about her shoulders. Stephanie stood two steps down, similarly dressed in black, and, several feet away, past the gnarled old tree rooted between grass and gravel at the edge of the garden, draped in long shadows stood Tim, with his back to them. Wearing the same grey hoody he’d worn to Jason’s, albeit with dark pants and polished shoes instead of jeans and sneakers.

Jason swallowed thickly at the sight of them, feeling his stomach turn and his palms sweat. More. He wanted to run his fingers back through his hair – and then _just run_ —

“Jay,” Dick touched his shoulder, halting them both, and Jason—

Felt a mix of gratefulness and annoyance.

“Are you alright?” Dick asked quietly, only to amend, “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Little bit,” Jason mumbled. Louder, he said, “Are you?”

“I’m—” Dick began, but didn’t quite know how to finish.

Jason turned to him, and Dick dropped his hand. “What’s with all this?” Jason asked, like he didn’t understand.

Dick frowned, “What do you mean?”

“ _This_ ,” he repeated, and nodded in the direction of the church. “Why not just—why _here_? Why all the—fan-fair?”

Dick shifted his weight, “I admit,” he replied. “Some of this _is_ a little bit for show,” his gaze moved briefly back in the direction they’d come from, and Jason presumed he meant the press-conference. “But, it is also the way Bruce had wanted it,” he shrugged.

Jason’s mouth twisted. “How do you mean? The last time he quote-unquote _died_ and you all _believed_ he was dead, _by_ the way; he had no funeral at all. He had an unmarked grave, an imposter, and a successor,” Jason gestured Dick, and only half-regretted he couldn’t keep his dislike for the entire affair from his tone. “Why isn’t this a quiet service at home? Why does all of Gotham, _and then some_ , know he’s dead in the first place?”

“As I _just_ said,” Dick replied, keeping his voice level, even as he marvelled at how incredibly quickly Jason had his hackles raised. He put his hands to his hips. “It’s what _he_ wanted. He wanted a ceremony here, at _this_ church, like his parents. And then he’ll be buried next to them. He _wanted_ … _this_ , Jason,” Dick griped, not meeting Jason’s eyes anymore. He’d had the same questions, but he wasn’t going to say as much.

Even though the details of Jason’s resurrection were a mystery, and even though Bruce’s attempts at bringing Damian back hadn’t worked, Dick had still been holding out…hope? Bruce would want them to _try_ , at least, for him, too. With Jason’s help, perhaps—

But.

“To be… _let go_ ,” Dick continued, echoing Bruce’s own words, his fingers digging into his sides. “No more pretences. He didn’t want to fight it. He…believed it was his time, and, he owed Gotham that one, _last_ truth. And _us_. He owed it to us.

“That we could mourn our loss and move on from it, in the open,” Dick had been abruptly reminded of Tim, deep in his belief that Bruce was still alive while his family and friends thought him lost in grief, unable to cope; when Bruce had told him that, and, for the life of him – for Bruce – Dick hadn’t managed an argument against that. He’d thought of all the instances he’d felt Bruce had let him, or any one of them, down. Described too often, too easily, as “emotionally stunted” and excused because that was just what he was like; unless the extreme opposite was true, and it ended in a fight.

And Dick had thought he was attempting to make up for it, with _this_. Because Bruce had always held himself responsible, and resented himself for not being able to help them _more_ , in dealing with him. Allowing them – requesting of them – to let him go, was the last thing he could give them.

“And the people of Gotham could do the same if they wanted – through the knowledge of his death, and witnessing us, and the funeral; if only from the outside,” Dick shrugged, “To spare us from too much of their scrutiny,” which was Bruce having his way in every way, which was…all so like him. “He was Gotham’s White Knight. They deserve to bid him farewell, I guess.”

“…Downright poetic, Dickie,” Jason commented, and Dick only then looked at him, but the younger man wasn’t watching him.

“Don’t be an ass, Jason,” Dick admonished, only partially joking.

“I didn’t—meant it,” Jason said, facing Dick, his expression vaguely pinched. “Like _that_. Exactly…”

“Okay,” Dick waved, dismissive. “Look. I’m just glad you came.”

“Yeah,” Jason said quietly, looking ahead at the church and their family, still gathered by the front steps. “Sure.” Dick wasn’t convinced Jason wouldn’t still bolt at any given second.

He swallowed, touched at Jason’s arm and made to move ahead, “Come on. Say hi to Alfred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last available chapter.


End file.
